Captain's Day

by Terry Ravenscroft

  Armitage, although he had reached his thirty fifth year some months ago, had not until the previous week, and unlike the vast majority of people of his age, ever experimented with drugs. It wasn't that he had anything against drugs - he didn't mind other people taking them, if that's what turned them on that was their affair, let them get on with it and good luck to them - it was just that he had never felt the need of them. And this state of affairs would probably have remained for evermore had he not visited his brother Brian in Nottingham the week previously.

  During the visit Brian had asked him if he had ever had a space cake. Armitage hadn't even known what a space cake was and if he’d had to hazard a guess would have said it was part of the rations carried by astronauts, or maybe some sort of confectionary with a space in the middle of it like a doughnut. However on being informed by Brian that it was a chocolate brownie fortified with cannabis Armitage said that no he hadn't, nor did he want to have one thank you very much. Brian said that was the way he himself had felt about space cakes until he'd been persuaded into trying one by a friend, and that following on from it, and whilst under the influence of it, he had played the best game of snooker in his life. He had put it down to the relaxing influence of the cannabis freeing up his cue action to such an extent that it had the effect of making even quite a difficult pot seem easy. “The pot made it easier to pot,” he had remarked at the time.

  Armitage, a keen snooker player himself when not on the golf course, but about as skilled a practitioner of the sport as he was at golf, which was somewhere between distinctly average and not very good at all, wondered if a space cake might do the same for him. There was only one way to find out.

  When he returned home the following day, armed with one of the half dozen space cakes generously donated by Brian, he made the local snooker club his first port of call. After eating the space cake and giving it half-an-hour to get fully into his system, as directed by Brian, he then played a frame of snooker. The result was nothing short of miraculous. All his senses were now enhanced, everything was much bigger and brighter. He felt so light; not light-headed – heavier-headed if anything – but light on his feet, as though walking on air. In his hand the cue didn't feel more like a broom handle than a snooker cue, as it usually did, but like a magician's wand, and like a magician's wand it soon began to weave its magic. He couldn't credit just how much the relaxing influence of the space cake had improved his game. The impossible shots became merely difficult, the difficult shots considerably easier, and the easier shots a walk in the park. His previous highest-ever break, compiled over twenty two painstaking minutes, five of which had been spent in the lavatory where he’d had to go to relieve himself due to the excitement of getting past twenty for the first time, had been thirty one, and was only that high because he’d fluked a red off three cushions when he was on fifteen. He passed that humble score in two minutes flat. He didn't achieve his first-ever fifty break, but only because he got a little too cocky and tried to pot an almost impossible pink off two cushions, left-handed, when the brown or blue would have been much a much easier option.

  A cautious man by nature, Armitage wondered if perhaps the whole thing was a coincidence, and that he might have performed just as well even if he hadn't had the space cake, that it had perhaps acted as a placebo, so the following day he went back to the snooker club and played a frame without having the advantage of a space cake inside him. He was absolutely terrible; the wand had disappeared, the broom handle was back in place. However a space cake soon put that right, as after re-racking the balls and playing another frame he found that he was as good as he was the day before, better in fact, as on this occasion he cut out the fancy stuff and made a break of seventy eight. There was no doubt about it then, a space cake, simply by relaxing you and heightening your senses, did absolute wonders for your snooker.

  It wasn't long before Armitage got to wondering if what held good for snooker might also hold good for golf, which was why he was now approaching the second green having just realised he’d forgotten to eat one of the space cakes before setting out on his round. He now reached into the ball pocket of his bag, in which he had stowed a couple of the cannabis-loaded sweetmeats, took one out and quickly ate it. Suitably charged he now looked forward to breaking the course record.

  *

  “Wasn't it Macbeth?” said Mrs Quayle?

  “Hamlet, I think,” said Mrs Salinas.

  “It was certainly one of the tragedies. I'm sure it was Macbeth.”

  “No, it was Wharfedale,” said Mrs Rattray, rejoining the others from the private world in which she had been dwelling for the last minute or so.

  Mrs Quayle and Mrs Salinas looked at her in surprise. “What was?” asked Mrs Quayle.

  “Where Harold and I went the other weekend. It wasn't Wensleydale, it was Wharfedale.”

  “Oh that's very nice too,” enthused Mrs Salinas. “And less sheep.” She thought for a moment before continuing, “Of course they don't have the cheese there. If you want beauty and cheese you have to go to Wensleydale.”

  “Or Marks and Spencers,” said Mrs Quayle.

  “Or Marks and Spencers,” agreed Mrs Rattray.

  9.40 a.m.

  S Cuddington (24)

  G Treforest (24)

  R Jones-Jones (24)

  The next three gentlemen to grace the first tee with their presence at Sunnymere that day were Sylvester Cuddington, Ged Treforest, and Rhys Jones-Jones. Like many club golfers throughout England’s green and pleasant land, and probably every other land where golf is played, green, pleasant or otherwise, the three friends invariably played together in club competitions. What was different about Cuddington, Treforest and Jones-Jones however was that in addition to sharing each other's company they also shared afflictions, although not the same one - Cuddington was a hunchback, Treforest had a club foot, whilst Jones-Jones, perhaps appropriately in view of his surname, had a stutter - and it was these physical handicaps, along with their respective long golf handicaps, that had drawn and bonded them together. Gallows humour is by no means a stranger to golf clubs and collectively the three were known throughout the club as 'Casualty'.

  There is no other man in the whole wide world who is as optimistic as a golfer standing on the first tee. As he is about to set forth on another round of golf he knows for sure that he is going to play well. It doesn’t matter that the last time he took to the greensward he played like a drain, nor the time before he would have been hard-pressed to hit a cow’s behind with a banjo, never mind a distant green with a three iron; a man fancying his chances of getting hand relief in a dodgy massage parlour could not be more hopeful of success than a golfer stood on the first tee.

  There are seldom grounds for such optimism. But then why should there be? For there can be no earthly reason for it. Why should a swing which has consistently got its owner into more trouble than the Americans got themselves into in Vietnam suddenly start working properly? Why should a swing that in the past has always contrived to dispatch a golf ball in any direction but the correct one, and about half the intended distance, suddenly transform itself into something that could propel a golf ball forward, arrow straight, and the correct distance? Why should the player’s skill with a sand wedge suddenly improve when every time he had previously called upon the services of that club to get him out of trouble it had succeeded only in getting him into even more trouble by removing from the bunker enough sand to build a dozen moderately-sized sandcastles, whilst at the same time contriving to leave the ball in the bunker, and in a much worse lie? And why should a putting stroke that for the last twenty years had managed to ensure that the ball consistently missed the hole with unerring certainty suddenly start causing the ball to find the centre of the hole?

  Nevertheless the golfer will always remain optimistic. Never mind that the last time he played he posted his worst score ever. Never mind that on arriving home he had kicked the dog and thrown his clubs into the garage and vowed never to play
golf again as long as he drew breath. Never mind that he had told his wife that if he ever so much as mentioned the word golf again, let alone play it, he would buy her a complete new wardrobe. Since then the penny will have dropped. He will have finally realised at long last that for all the years he has been playing his grip has been wrong; or that he has been leaning too far forward in his stance, or not far enough; or that he has been standing too near to the ball, or too far away from it; or he has had the ball too far back in his stance, or too far forward. Or his knees have been bent too much or not bent enough. Or his feet have been too far apart, or too near to each other. Now, having made the necessary adjustment, things would be hunky dory.

  Or perhaps the problem might not have been physical, but mental. The golfer may have realised he was too tense and uptight, so had invested in a relaxation tape and had benefited from its soothing words of wisdom. Now, fully relaxed and downtight, he would finally be able to do himself justice. Or he may have realised he was too relaxed, and to counteract this had presented himself on the first tee after first having psyched himself up for the previous six hours by standing naked in a barrelful of crabs.

  Or he may have had a lesson from the professional. As was the case with Sylvester Cuddington.

  “Oh by the way,” said that very golfer to his companions as he teed up his ball, “I've had a lesson since we last played.”

  “I'd b-better g-go for my t-tin hat,” said Jones-Jones.

  Treforest too was well aware of the doubtful benefits of a golf lesson. “Get one for me while you're at it, Taff; I'll need one if he hits the ball anything like he did the last time he had a lesson.”

  “No need for tin hats, Ged,” said Cuddington, oozing confidence, “Or any other protection for that matter. I'm very straight now, swinging like an Open winner, the pro really sorted out me out.”

  “Tobin?” said Treforest in disbelief. “It would take him all his time to sort out an empty cupboard.”

  Jones-Jones was quick to agree, though not as quick in conveying his agreement, due to his stutter. “I should s-say s-so. He's r-rubbish, that T-Tobin. He's m-more interested in s-selling you a new s-sweater than t-teaching you how to play golf p-properly.”

  Cuddington however, far from defending Tobin, shared his playing partner’s opinion of the Sunnymere professional. “I didn't go to Tobin,” he said. “Complete waste of money. No, I went to that new bloke they've got at the Municipal. He talked a lot of sense.”

  “What did he have to say?” asked Treforest, hopeful that the teachings of the professional at the nearby public golf course might improve his own game, where others had failed.

  “First he told me it was absolutely pointless him trying to teach me how to swing a golf club correctly,” said Cuddington.

  “Because of your hump?” said Treforest.

  Cuddington didn’t mind people referring to his hump no more than Treforest and Jones-Jones minded people bringing up their afflictions in conversation. All had been born with their burdens and were by now quite comfortable with them, although Cuddington didn’t much care for being called Quasimodo, which he had been on several occasions, once, appropriately if somewhat insensitively, outside Notre Dame Cathedral; but never by a golfer.

  “No he said it was my age,” continued Cuddington. “He said that over the years I'd picked up too many bad habits, which I'd never get rid of now no matter how hard I tried. He said I would be far better off living with my bad habits and adapting to them, and that as long as I remembered to make the same mistakes with my downswing as I'd made with my backswing I wouldn't go far wrong.”

  “M-make the same mistakes with your d-downswing as you d-do with your b-backswing?”

  “Make as many mistakes coming down as you did going up, was the way he put it,” affirmed Cuddington. “And not even necessarily in the same order. And it works too. He had me hitting the ball better than I've ever hit it in my life. I hit one drive two hundred and fifty yards”

  Jones-Jones was impressed. “T-two hundred and f-fifty yards? I d-don’t g-go that f-far on my h-holidays.”

  Watching them, Mr Captain, showing a little concern, now called over to them. “You'd better get a move on, gentlemen,” he said, pointing at his watch, “You'll be holding up the next group if you’re not careful.”

  “Right away, Mr Captain,” said Cuddington, and putting his newly acquired skill to good use proceeded to hit a booming drive that split the fairway.

  Jones-Jones and Treforest watched the ball disappear into the distance and come to rest some two hundred and thirty yards away. Jones-Jones was even more impressed now he had witnessed Cuddington’s words transformed into reality. “I m-might have a g-go at that myself,” he said. “How about you, G-Ged?”

  “Does the Pope shit on Catholics?” said Treforest.

  *

  Due to her having had to report Tobin's unseemly but fortuitous behaviour to her husband without delay, the disc-jockey was already setting up his equipment when Millicent swept into the golf club’s function room. She hadn't expected to like what she saw and Daddy Rhythm's appearance did nothing to belie her expectations, fat forty-year-olds with purple Mohican haircuts and green lipstick being far from her favourite example of Homo sapiens. At least the yob wasn't wearing earrings, Millicent noted, thankfully. “I am the wife of Mr Captain,” she said to him imperiously, losing no time in making her exalted position in the hierarchy of the golf club clear to Daddy Rhythm, should he be under the illusion he was dealing with the hired help.

  Daddy Rhythm, taking his cue from Millicent, thinking perhaps that it was the usual form of address in golfing circles said, “I am the husband of Mrs Potts.”

  Millicent raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Ted Potts. Otherwise known as Daddy Rhythm.” He held out his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs Captain.”

  “Fridlington.”

  “What?”

  “My name is Fridlington, Mrs Fridlington.”

  “I thought you said it was Mrs Captain?”

  “I said I was the wife of Mr Captain.”

  Daddy Rhythm thought he understood. “Got you. You kept your maiden name. For professional reasons I suppose. Are you in the business?”

  Millicent was about to make another attempt at putting Daddy Rhythm right but felt that enough time had been wasted on the cretin already. Daddy Rhythm’s hand was still suspended in mid-air waiting for something to shake, however Millicent had always considered disc- jockeys to be trade, and a highly dubious trade at that, and she never shook hands with tradesmen on principle - apart from the question of social class one never knew where their hands had been - so ignoring his hand she got straight down to business. “Those loudspeakers are rather large, aren't they,” she said, in a tone which made it abundantly clear she didn't regard the dimensions of the four feet six inches high by two feet wide towers of power as a virtue.

  “Two thousand watts RMS each,” said Daddy Rhythm, proudly. “Delivering a hundred and twenty decibels of pure pulsating rhythm when I crank up the amps to eleven,” he continued, indicating the three amplifiers holding up his quadruple deck CD player. Millicent had no idea how loud a decibel was but a hundred and twenty of them sounded far too many for her liking and her expression said as much. “It'll blow your mind,” added Daddy Rhythm, confirming her fears.

  “I don't wish to have my mind blown, thank you very much. And I'm quite sure the Mayor doesn't either.”

  Daddy Rhythm was immediately sympathetic. “Well I can understand that. I mean animals have a much higher sense of hearing, don't they.”

  “Pardon?”

  Something suddenly struck Daddy Rhythm. “But won't it be outside in the fields?”

  “In the fields?”

  “Or in its stable?”

  “Won't what be in its stable?”

  “Your mare.”

  “My mare? What mare?”

  “The one you said wouldn't want its mind bein
g blown?”

  Millicent was fully aware that the average disc-jockey wasn't on the front row when brains were given out, and was in all probability stood at the back sucking his thumb, but she hadn't up until now thought they were quite as thick as Daddy Rhythm appeared to be. “The Lord Mayor!” she said. “It is the Lord Mayor who will be the guest of honour this evening!”

  Daddy Rhythm's eyes lit up. “Will he be wearing his chain? Daddy Rhythm loves all that ceremonial shit. Please tell me he’ll be wearing his chain?”

  Anxious to get on, Millicent let Daddy Rhythm's use of the word 'shit' go unchallenged for the time being, but made a mental note to come back to it later, and ignoring his request for information about the Mayor’s mode of dress that evening she ploughed on. “Returning to the volume of your disco,” she said firmly. “You will be required to keep it low, throughout the entire evening.”

  Daddy Rhythm looked doubtful. “Well you're the boss. But if I do that I won't enjoy myself and if Daddy Rhythm doesn't enjoy himself the chances are you won't enjoy yourself either.”

  “I will be the judge of what I will and will not enjoy,” said Millicent, huffily. “And your enjoyment doesn't enter into the matter. Your job is to provide the music, not to enjoy yourself. So loudspeakers at a low volume throughout the evening, please. And no flashing lights.”

  Daddy Rhythm could scarcely believe his ears. Was the woman out of her tree? “No flashing lights? But flashing lights is half the fun.”

  “Then we will settle for half the fun only. She who pays the piper.”

  “You want a piper? Just leave it to Daddy Rhythm. We had one at the gig I did last New Year's Eve. Scotch Abdul. An Arab but you'd never know it the way he plays those bagpipes. The man is a maestro, an artist. I have his card,” he ended, reaching into the pocket of his lime and lemon coloured velvet waistcoat.