Captain's Day

by Terry Ravenscroft

  Davis was adamant. “All right I'll prove it. How many strokes do you reckon it would take Tiger Woods to go round Sunnymere ?”

  Jenkins looked thoughtful. After a moment or so he said, “It’s difficult to say. I mean he's a big powerful lad the Tiger isn't he, he hits the ball a country mile.”

  “That makes two of us then, because I hit the ball a country mile too. And I go round in about eighty eight on a good day.”

  “Yes but ninety nine times out of a hundred Tiger Woods hits the ball in the general direction he wants it to go,” said Venables, “Whereas you usually go from tee to green via the duck pond, the car park and Disneyland.”

  Davis however refused to be put off his claim. “That is completely immaterial to my argument. So what score do you think Tiger would go round in then?”

  The two gave the matter a little more thought. Jenkins was the first to give his opinion. “Well Sunnymere is par seventy, standard scratch sixty eight. Not for the likes of Tiger Woods though. He'd murder the short par fours, he’d almost drive the green on some of them. About sixty four I would think; on average.”

  “Agreed?” asked Davis, turning to Venables.

  “Sixty three,” said Venables, after a further moment’s consideration. “I think he’d go round in sixty three.”

  “All right then, sixty three,” conceded Davis. “And how long is the Sunnymere course?”

  “Six thousand five hundred and something,” said Jenkins.

  Venables checked the exact distance on his scorecard. “Six thousand six hundred and thirty four yards off the back tees.”

  “And what length would you say I play it at?”

  “You, Dogleg? Well you're all over the place, aren't you,” said Jenkins. “About nine thousand yards I should think. Minimum.”

  “On a good day,” added Venables. “Up to eleven thousand on a bad one.”

  “All right then, we'll split the difference and say ten,” said Davis. “Right. So Tiger Woods goes round a six thousand six hundred and thirty yards golf course in sixty three shots. Which means he takes....” He took out a pocket calculator and punched the numbers in. “....one shot every one hundred and five yards. I go round a ten thousand yard course in eighty eight shots. I take....” He used the calculator again. “....one shot about every hundred and thirteen yards. So I get eight yards more out of each shot I take than Tiger does. Obviously making me the better golfer.”

  Jenkins and Venables pondered on this for a moment or two. Finally Venables spoke. “So how come you're a long distance lorry driver on about four hundred quid a week and Tiger Woods is well on the way to his first billion?”

  “I haven't worked that out yet,” said Davis.

  *

  After their approach shots to the third green Armitage's ball lay about twenty feet from the hole, Stock's ball a similar distance, whilst Grover's ball was about ten feet away.

  “Who’s away?” said Armitage, weighing up the positions of the respective balls.

  “There can't be a lot in it,” said Stock.

  Armitage paced out the distance from his ball to the hole, did the same for Stock's ball and announced his verdict. “It’s just about me. By about a dick's length.”

  Grover cocked an ear. “Dicks again, Trevor.”

  “What?”

  “About a dick's length? You can't keep your mind off dicks for five minutes, can you.”

  Armitage brushed it off. “It's just a figure of speech.”

  “It's just a figure of your speech you mean. Anyone else would have said 'By about six inches'. Or whatever the length of a dick happens to be.”

  “Six and three quarter inches,” said Armitage, quick as a flash. “On average. Erect. According to my information.”

  “Yes well that’s bound to be right then, isn’t it. Because I don’t think for one moment there’s any chance of the information supplied by somebody who thinks about dicks all day long to be anything but absolutely spot on.”

  Armitage protested. “Who thinks about dicks all day? I don't.”

  “No, of course you don't, Trevor,” said Grover, with a knowing wink at Stock.

  Armitage noticed the wink. “Well I don't,” he insisted, and proceeded to qualify this contention. “I wasn't thinking about dicks when we were walking up to the green together just now and you were talking to Gerard about butterflies. I was thinking about Paris, because I'm off there next week for the weekend.”

  “Me and the wife went there the other week,” said Stock. “I'd never been before.”

  “I’ve been a couple of times,” said Grover. “What did you think to it?”

  “Great. It was really enjoyable. The Louvre, the Left Bank, the Eiffel Tower …”

  “That was built as a phallic symbol, you know, the Eiffel Tower,” said Armitage.

  Grover rolled his eyes. “What did I tell you? What did I just say?”

  “What?”

  “Dicks again. Eiffel Tower, phallic symbol, dicks again.”

  “Well it was built as a phallic symbol,” protested Armitage. “It’s not my fault the French built it like a big dick; you know what they’re like. Anyway I was only saying, can't you say anything now?”

  “I'm fast beginning to think you can't say anything if it doesn't include dicks in it,” said Grover.

  *

  After Mr Captain had seen Davis, Jenkins and Venables on their way he noticed the Arbuthnott threesome walking down the ninth fairway on their way to the green, so started to make his way over to the beer tent to welcome them after they’d completed the hole.

  Mr Captain was very happy with the way things had gone thus far. There had been a couple of blips – the unpleasant business with that naked youth chasing after one of the members for some reason or another, he didn’t know what and he didn’t want to know, and the disappointment of the band being double-booked and having to make do with a disco – but certainly nothing serious enough to spoil his day significantly.

  The next blip not serious enough to spoil his day significantly, but a blip he could have well done without, happened just short of the bunker by the side of the eighteenth green when he looked up at the skies once again to check for signs of any change in the weather. He had done this maybe a couple of dozen times since Ifield had warned him of Fred the Weatherman's dire forecast, and he'd come to the conclusion that Fred the Weatherman didn't know what he was talking about; every time he had checked he’d seen nothing but cloudless skies and the sun. Which was exactly what he saw now. Then he saw stars. Lots of stars. When he trod on the business end of the rake he'd taken out of the bunker about an hour ago and the other end of it shot up and gave him a nasty crack on the nose. “Damn!” he said, which was the nearest he ever got to swearing, and only then when he was severely pressed.

  He felt his nose. It was wet. He looked at his hand. There was blood on it. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed the blood away, then felt his nose again, gingerly. He breathed a sigh of relief; it didn't appear to be broken. Being hit on the nose by the rake had spoiled his day just a little but if the blow had broken his nose it would have spoiled it considerably. An hour later he would have happily accepted a broken arm, a broken leg and possibly even a broken neck in exchange for what was about to befall him.

  *

  No more than ten minutes after Tobin had realised he could do nothing about Mr Captain getting him the sack he realised he could. He could exact revenge. It wouldn't save him from the sack of course but at least it would wipe the self-satisfied smirk off that tight-arsed twat of a Mr Captain's face. It was just a matter of deciding what form the revenge would take. It would have to be something he couldn't be held responsible for though, something that didn't throw any suspicion on him; it would be difficult enough to obtain another position as a club pro as it already was without accusations of having taken revenge on the captain of his former club being levelled against him. And whatever it was he decided on it would have to be something that could be carr
ied out pretty quickly as he couldn’t see himself being at Sunnymere for very much longer once the extraordinary meeting had sat and announced its verdict. And preferably it should be something that spoiled Mr Captain's day.

  Tobin put on his thinking cap. A bomb scare? Possibly. Pretend to be an IRA terrorist, phone up the police and tell them a bomb had been planted in one of the course’s seventy three bunkers, guess which, and was due to go off at noon? No. It would spoil Mr Captain's day, no doubt about that, because the course would have to be cleared and all the bunkers checked out; but there was always the outside chance the call might be traced back to him; and apart from that didn't IRA terrorists have a special code they used when they phoned so that the police knew it was a genuine threat and not some crank on the other end of the line?

  Allow Mr Captain to enjoy his day, and his evening, then lie in wait for him when he arrived home and give him a bloody good duffing up? Wearing a mask so he couldn't be recognised. No. Too risky again. Mr Captain wasn’t likely to put up much of a fight but something might go wrong, the mask might slip off or something, and even if things went to plan he would be a prime suspect, being a soon-to-be ex-employee with a very large axe to grind.

  He looked out of the window hoping to find inspiration there. From his shop he could see out onto the lane that wended its way past the back of the clubhouse. Two young girls in riding breeches carrying large black plastic buckets under their arms were walking past on their way to the horse riding stables a half mile or so up the lane. He often saw young girls carrying buckets on their way to the stables and the only interest he had ever taken in them, apart from admiring their firm young bottoms as they walked past, was to wonder what it was they carried in the buckets. Oats for their horse? A brush with which to groom it? A spare tampon? All he knew was that whenever he saw young girls on the way to their horses they always carried buckets. He had once had the thought that you didn't need to own a horse to convince someone you were a horse owner, you merely had to walk around carrying a black plastic bucket under your arm.

  The girls passed by and after he had appreciated their bottoms and imagined cupping them in his hands and fondling them he was about to re-apply himself to the task of coming up with a suitable form of revenge on Mr Captain when a tractor from the stables passed by travelling in the opposite direction; and the combination of the tractor and the girls' bottoms gave him exactly the thing he was looking for, and Mr Captain’s day was well on the way to being well and truly spoiled.

  *

  When Garland had been teeing off at the fourth, and Harris and Ifield had been watching him, Jason had taken the opportunity to determine if despite being tied to Garland's trolley he could still get at the penknife in his trousers' pocket. He smiled to himself when he found that with a little effort he could. He already knew his chance of escape would come sooner rather than later; he had often seen the members of Sunnymere playing golf and knew it wouldn't be very long before one of them lost their ball and the others helped him find it.

  The chance to escape presented itself when Harris's sliced approach shot ended up in the azaleas about forty yards to the right of the fourth green. Garland had hit the green with his own approach shot and after pulling Jason along with his trolley to the green's edge he now parked them there whilst he went to Harris's assistance. No sooner was his back turned than Jason took out his penknife, cut through the laces binding him to the trolley, and was off long before Garland became aware of what was happening. In fact if Jason hadn't called out “I'll get you back for this you bald-headed old bugger!” before running off it would have been even longer before Garland found out. The vice captain gave chase but not being in the best of condition these days he soon realised the futility of it and gave up, contenting himself with waving a fist at the departing Jason and shouting that he would fucking crucify him if he ever laid hands on him again.

  *

  After leaving Daddy Rhythm Millicent had proceeded to the beer tent, where she was to help out when the golfers called in for their drink with Mr Captain. Assisting her in this task would be the lady captain, Mrs Jordan, who had already entrenched herself in the beer tent when Millicent arrived, even though it was still some time away from when the first of the golfers were due to arrive.

  Millicent had long thought it would have been more apt if Mrs Jordan had been called Mrs Gordon, judging by the amount of the gin of that name she drank, and would have much preferred one of the other ladies to help her out, or indeed done without any help at all if the only help on offer came in the shape of the lady captain. However Mrs Jordan had insisted and Millicent could hardly turn her down.

  The reason for the lady captain’s insistence and for her premature arrival became apparent to Millicent the moment she entered the beer tent and noted that already one of the bottles of gin was a third empty. “It spilled as I was putting the optic on,” the lady captain explained, with an innocent smile, on noticing Millicent looking at the bottle with raised eyebrows.

  “Yes and your throat just happened to be in the way before it could hit the floor,” thought Millicent, but said, “What a shame, Lady Captain. I know they can be a bit tricky so perhaps you’d better let me put the optic on the next bottle of gin when the present one is empty, I seem to have the knack.”

  “Of course,” said the lady captain sweetly, whilst at the same time making plans that would ensure Millicent would be putting the optic on the next bottle without too much delay.

  10.00 a.m.

  P Norris (4)

  R Oates (5)

  S Pemberton (7)

  Paul Norris, Ray Oates and Simon Pemberton teed off at the first then made their way, abreast of each other, for they were accomplished golfers, down the fairway. They were also accomplished wits.

  “Corey Pavin,” said Norris

  “Fuzzy Zoeller,” said Oates

  “Howard Twitty,” said Pemberton.

  *

  After taking a four at the par four ninth to remain two over par gross at the halfway stage Arbuthnott began to believe for the first time that he could win the competition. He had said as much on the way to the first tee, and had meant what he'd said, but he had done this on numerous occasions in the past but not really believed it. It had been said as a way of finding inspiration, of geeing himself up into making some sort of a show of it. The difference this time was that it seemed to be working; instead of his challenge petering out after a few holes (or not even starting, as it did the day he tried out his new Lee Trevino swing and went nine off the tee at the first after hitting his first three attempts out of bounds and accomplishing an air shot with his fourth attempt), he seemed on this occasion to be very much heading for a win. Now, anxious to keep his round going, he was more than glad that they wouldn't be stopping off at the beer tent for a drink with Mr Captain, with the consequent risk of his concentration being thrown out of kilter.

  “You must be in with some sort of a chance if you can manage to keep it together, Arby,” said Bagley, as they left the green and started to make their way over to the tenth tee some eighty yards away.

  “It's early days yet,” said Arbuthnott cautiously, not wishing to tempt providence, but also not to give Chapman the opportunity to accuse him of crowing again.

  Chapman was completely unconvinced by Arbuthnott's apparent and unexpected show of modesty. “Very early days, for a crower,” he said. “I remember once being in a similar position after nine holes myself.”

  “You must have a bloody good memory,” said Arbuthnott, unable to resist giving Chapman a bit of his own back.

  Standing outside the beer tent, waiting to play mine host to Arbuthnott, Bagley and Chapman, Mr Captain was wondering why they were heading towards the tenth tee and not towards him. Could they have forgotten? Surely not. Surely they wouldn't have overlooked such a long-standing tradition as a drink with the captain at the halfway stage of the Captain’s Prize competition? He raised an arm aloft and hailed them. “I say!” The threesome
didn’t hear him, or if they did they chose to ignore him. He shouted again, this time at the top of his voice, so it was quite impossible for them not to hear him. They stopped and looked over in his direction. He beckoned to them to join him. Chapman shook his head and all three turned and continued on their way to the tee. Totally bemused, Mr Captain shouted again. “I say!” The three stopped, turned resignedly to face him again, but made no attempt to join him. Mr Captain reluctantly cast himself in the role of Mohammad and made for the mountain, radiating concern.

  “What’s going on, gentlemen? Surely you’ll be having a drink with me?” he said on arrival.

  “No thank you, Mr Captain, we’d rather not,” said Chapman, rather abruptly.

  “You won’t?” Mr Captain's main concern up until then had been how he could keep everyone down to one drink; this was something he hadn’t bargained for. “But whyever not?”

  Chapman shrugged as if to say it was a matter of little importance.

  Arbuthnott shrugged but at least had the decency to accompany the gesture with a wan smile.

  Bagley was more forthcoming. “We've decided not to bother with the beer tent this year, Mr Captain.”

  “Not to bother with it?”

  “If it’s all the same to you.”

  “But it isn’t all the same to me.”

  “Well all right then, if it isn’t all the same to you,” said Chapman, the more blunt of the three. “We still don’t want a drink with you.”

  “But....I don’t understand?”

  “Well it's the no swearing rule if you must know, Mr Captain,” said Arbuthnott.

  “The no swearing rule?”

  “We think it stinks,” said Chapman, in case Mr Captain should be in any doubt.

  “Neither my playing partners nor I particularly want to swear,” Bagley explained. “Personally I never do. But we don't much like being told we can't. We see it as a golfer’s prerogative and something that is almost bound to happen with most golfers occasionally. So I'm afraid we won't be having a drink with you, in protest.”