Captain's Day

by Terry Ravenscroft

  Jessica shrugged. “So what if he does see me? I'm only looking out of the window; where’s the harm in that?”

  Southfield felt she had omitted a relevant point from her assessment of the current situation and now pointed it out. “You haven’t got a bloody stitch on, Jessica.”

  “Well I always sleep in the nude, he knows that. He'll think I've just got up. Well he would if he happened to look up and to see me, but he won't, he'll be too wrapped up in his stupid game of golf to notice anything.”

  Southfield knew she had a point. Once a man is out on the golf course he has little thought for anything else; he was the same himself. And was precisely the reason why he was at this very moment in Jessica's bed contemplating a second bout of sex with her, secure in the knowledge that he was quite safe from discovery whilst doing so, he assured himself once again.

  *

  “Mark McCard.”

  “Jay Cloth.”

  “E Gil Three.”

  *

  Arbuthnott, still holding his game together very well and with an exceptional card in prospect, better even than the net sixty two Alec Adams had decided he would put in, stepped onto the thirteenth tee. He looked down towards the green from its elevated position to establish where they had placed the flagstick that day, expecting to see a difficult pin placement in view of the Nearest the Pin competition taking place there. What he didn't expect to see was a party of three ladies seated behind the green taking morning coffee under the shade of a large pink and white candy-striped parasol. He turned to Bagley and Chapman in disbelief. “I don't believe this!”

  “What's that?” said Bagley, as he and Chapman joined Arbuthnott on the tee.

  Arbuthnott pointed towards the green.

  “Jesus wept!” said Chapman. “I thought I'd seen everything the time one of them discovered a fairy ring in the middle of the twelfth fairway and cordoned it off with pink ribbon.”

  “They're from the Planet Gladys, women golfers, aren't they,” said Bagley, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Well at least they aren't sitting in front of the green,” said Arbuthnott, “That’s something to be grateful for. I wouldn't put that past them.”

  “I'd like to put the contents of a double-barrelled shotgun past them,” said Chapman, wistfully. “Or better still into them.”

  Behind the green Mrs Quayle, Mrs Rattray and Mrs Salinas had failed to spot the arrival of Arbuthnott, Bagley and Chapman on the tee, their minds occupied with more important matters.

  “And the mess they made!” said Mrs Quayle.

  Mrs Rattray commiserated with her friend. “Oh it was the same when I had my conservatory installed. The dust got simply everywhere.”

  “And they don’t care,” said Mrs Salinas.

  “They simply could not care less,” agreed Mrs Rattray.

  “To be quite honest with you,” said Mrs Quayle, “I almost wished we’d never gone in for one in the first place. The whole experience was quite traumatic.”

  “Well of course having a conservatory installed can be,” said Mrs Rattray. “Well no one knows that more than I do.”

  “Well it’s over with now, Miriam,” Mrs Salinas consoled her.

  “And thank goodness, I don’t think I could have stood another day of it.”

  There was a sudden 'plop' as Arbuthnott's ball landed in the sand bunker to their left.

  “Ah,” said Mrs Rattray, hearing the sound and noticing the distant figures on the tee, “Our first customers. Now who has the tape measure?”

  Back on the tee Arbuthnott bemoaned his luck on seeing his ball land in the bunker. “Shit! That's the first really bad shot I've hit all day. I've those bloody women to thank for that!”

  “I'll see if I can hit them for you,” said Bagley, taking Arbuthnott's place on the tee.

  “Aim for the whites of their eyes,” advised Chapman, then had an afterthought. “Make that the whites of their thighs, it’s a bigger target.”

  *

  It had taken less than half-an-hour for Millicent to locate her father. Mr Harkness played bowls in the park most mornings when the weather was fit and today found him there as usual. Persuading him to abandon his game of bowls had been easy as he was losing at the time and the winner paid for the teas; and once Millicent had mentioned that a free drink was involved she had no trouble in talking two of his fellow bowlers into joining him.

  On arriving back at the beer tent Millicent was glad to note that the gin level in the bottle of Gordon's hadn't gone down any further. She would have been less glad had she known that in her absence the Lady Captain had helped herself to a couple of generous measures and brought the level back up with water. This of course had the effect of weakening the brew, which was not of course an ideal state of affairs for the Lady Captain, who would have preferred it stronger rather than weaker, but she planned to accidentally break the bottle shortly, which would necessitate opening a new one.

  Millicent introduced the three old men to the Lady Captain. “This is my father, Mr Harkness, and these are two of his friends, Mr Oldknow and Mr Wormald. They will be having a drink with us when the Lord Mayor arrives.”

  “When the Mayor arrives?” said Wormald. “You didn’t say anything about having to wait until the Mayor arrives, I want one now, I’m thirsty.”

  “I want mine now, too,” said Oldknow. “Or else I'm going.”

  “Very well,” said Millicent, against her better judgement. She turned to the Lady Captain. “Father will have a small orange juice. I don't know what Mr Oldknow and Mr Wormald would like, very probably the same.”

  “A pint of bitter,” said Oldknow.

  “Make that two,” said Wormald.

  Millicent would have far rather Oldknow and Wormald kept to soft drinks, preferably small ones, being all too aware of what old men were like with their bladders after drinking pints of beer, and had visions of the two of them being otherwise engaged in the lavatory instead of on duty in the beer tent during the Mayoral visit, thus defeating the object of the exercise, but accepted there was little she could do about it. Other than to ensure that they only had one pint of beer each and not a drop more, which she fully intended to do.

  *

  All three tee shots at the thirteenth had failed to find the green. Arbuthnott’s ball in the bunker was the nearest to the pin, Bagley was left and short whilst Chapman was even shorter and right.

  As the three golfers were approaching their respective balls Mrs Quayle, Mrs Rattray and Mrs Salinas, the latter now armed with a tape measure, left their chairs and ambled onto the green in the direction of the bunker in which Arbuthnott’s ball had landed. Mrs Quayle called to them, gaily. “Good morning, gentlemen. We’ll try not to hold you up for too long.”

  “What?” said Chapman. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Measuring the nearest ball to the pin of course,” said Mrs Salinas, brightly.

  “Measuring the nearest ball to the pin?” echoed Bagley, just as surprised as Chapman.

  “We have to measure the nearest ball to the pin,” exclaimed Mrs Rattray, patiently. “Didn’t you know? Mr Arbuthnott’s ball I believe.”

  “But why?” said Chapman. “It isn’t going to win.”

  “It might,” said Mrs Salinas.

  Arbuthnott turned to Bagley. “You’re right, Baggers. The Planet Gladys.”

  “What’s the matter?” asked Mrs Salinas of Arbuthnott, detecting the tone of ridicule in his voice without at all understanding what he'd meant.

  “Well I’m twenty yards from the pin in a bunker, aren't I,” explained Arbuthnott. “How can I possibly win a Nearest the Pin Competition?”

  “Well the lady who won our Nearest the Pin Competition was twenty seven yards and four inches away from the pin,” said Mrs Quayle, “So you must be in with some sort of a chance.”

  “Twenty seven yards and four inches?” echoed Arbuthnott, then added, sarcastically, “Was it on the green?”

  “There’s n
othing in the competition rules that says it has to be on the green,” said Mrs Rattray, authoritatively.

  “It wasn’t even on the green?”

  “It was in a bunker if you must know. That one over there.” She pointed to another bunker. “Front edge.”

  Arbuthnott was quickly running out of patience. “Look get off the green, will you, I’ve got a good round going,” he said, then modified his claim. “Well I did have a good round going until I saw you lot having a bloody tea party.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” demanded Mrs Quayle.

  “Look, just clear off out of it, will you!” said Chapman.

  Mrs Rattray leapt to her friend's defence. “You can’t talk to Mrs Quayle like that. She’s just had a conservatory in!”

  “I couldn’t give a shit if she’s just had the milkman in, clear off,” said Chapman.

  “Well!” said Mrs Quayle. “If that doesn’t take the biscuit! Mr Captain will hear of this.”

  *

  In Daddy Rhythm’s considered opinion Millicent had been far too dismissive about Lord Nose and the Bogies and he felt that once she'd had the chance to hear them she would very quickly become a fan. With his equipment finally set up the disc-jockey was now about to put this theory to the test. Initially his plan had been to wait until the dinner dance to surprise Millicent and the rest of the golf club with the talents of his favourite group, but then decided that if he were to give everyone a preview of the delights to come it would cheer them up a bit if their golf wasn't going too well, in addition to giving them all something to look forward to.

  One of the giant loudspeakers was already pointing in the direction of the large windows that looked out onto the golf course and Daddy Rhythm now muscled the other one round until it was pointing the same way as its twin. He had already opened wide all the windows. Now he cued in the second track of the CD 'Lord Nose and the Bogies Greatest Tits', cranked up the volume of the three amplifiers to maximum, and seconds later a hundred and twenty decibels of 'I Don't Give a Toss', but sounding even louder due to the screech of Lord Nose’s falsetto voice and drummer Snot Green’s generous use of his two base drums and crash cymbals, hit the golf course.

  I don't give a toss

  You could be nailed to a cross

  But it’s sod all to do with me

  ‘cos I don’t give a toss

  I’m like Jonathan Woss

  And I don’t give a toss toss toss!

  I don’t give a shite

  You might think that’s not right

  But it’s sod all to do with you

  ‘cos I don’t give a shite

  As long as I’m all right

  No I don’t give a shite shite shite!

  I don't give a fuck

  So you’re down on your luck

  Well it’s sod all to do with me

  ‘cos I don’t give a fuck

  So that’s your fucking luck

  For I don’t give a fuck fuck fuck!

  The pro's shop was situated between the clubhouse and the golf course and received the full blast of it.

  “Awesome,” said Darren.

  *

  The sound was almost as loud in the beer tent where, along with everyone else within a mile, Millicent learned that Lord Nose and the Bogies didn't give a toss and didn't give a shite. However, unlike everyone else, she never did find out they didn't give a fuck as just before the start of the third verse she fainted.

  “You'd better move her outside,” advised the Lady Captain to Millicent's father and his friends as soon as the song had ended and she could hear herself speak, “where she can get some fresh air.”

  *

  Mr Captain was returning from the beer tent when the fusillade of F-words hit him, a phenomenon that had rendered him absolutely mortified and had made a very large contribution towards his day being spoiled. His mortification however was tempered by the relief that it hadn't happened in the presence of the Lord Mayor. He now made for the clubhouse and Daddy Rhythm to ensure that that terrible prospect could never come about.

  10.40 a.m.

  R Thompson (12)

  R Livermore (17)

  J Purseglove (18)

  After Moss had signalled the threesome behind to play through, Ray Livermore hit his tee shot into the left-hand rough and it took he and his playing partners Reg Thompson and John Purseglove about three minutes to find it. After Livermore had whacked the wayward ball some fifty yards or so back onto the fairway and they had all set off after it Thompson said: “So this Englishman pitched up in this little village in the middle of Wales and the place was deserted except for this old Welshman sat on a bench at the side of the road, and the Englishman said to him 'Excuse me, I'm looking for a man called Evans. We met on holiday at Butlin’s recently; you wouldn't happen to know where he lives, would you?' And the Welshman said 'Well we've got a lot of people called Evans in this village, boyo, it's a very popular name in these parts is Evans, we have more people called Evans than we have called Jones and we have a lot of people called Jones. Can you tell me anything about him?' And the Englishman said 'He has very blonde hair.' And the Welshman said 'It could be Evans the Butcher then, he has very blonde hair. Is he tall?' And the Englishman said 'No he's quite short actually.' And the Welshman said 'Very blonde and quite short, eh? That sounds like Evans the Baker, Evans the Baker is blonde and quite short. Is he fat?' And the Englishman said 'No, he’s quite thin.' And the Welshman said ‘Very blonde, quite short and quite thin, eh? That sounds like Evans the Grocer. Did he walk with a limp?' And the Englishman said 'No, he walked perfectly normally.' And the Welshman said 'Not him either then. Can you tell me anything else about him?' And the Englishman said 'Well like I said we met on holiday at Butlin's, he was in the next chalet to us and we got quite friendly, then on the last day of the holiday while I was out he had sex with my wife, then stole my best suit out of the wardrobe with my wallet and all my money in it, then to top it off he shit on my doorstep.' And the Welshman said 'Oh you mean Evans the Twat’.”

  Livermore and Purseglove burst out laughing.

  “Wonderful,” said Livermore.

  “A cracker,” agreed Purseglove.

  By then they were almost upon Hartley, Critchlow and Moss who were waiting at the side of the fairway. Hartley was absolutely seething. He glared at them and said, “So it's something to laugh about is it? Us having to let you through?”

  “No,” said Purseglove.

  “Not at all,” said Livermore.

  “Then why are you laughing?”

  “Reg just told us a very funny joke,” said Purseglove.

  “Oh I like a good joke,” said Moss, his face lighting up, “Tell it to us would you Reg?”

  Thompson took a deep breath. “Well this Englishman pitched up in this little village in the middle of Wales, and the place….”

  Hartley went ballistic. “Do you bloody mind?” he snarled, steam coming from his ears. “We’re trying to play a game of golf here!”

  “Steady on Alan,” said Livermore, noting the veins standing out on Hartley’s forehead, “you’ll be doing yourself a mischief.”

  Moss now saw the opportunity for another cautionary tale from his treasury of golf anecdotes and seized on it like a hungry ferret that had waylaid a careless rabbit. He started to recite: “As Dr A S Lamb once said, ‘Golf increases the blood pressure, ruins the disposition, induces neurasthenia, hurts’….”

  That was as far as he got, and if Critchlow hadn’t had the presence of mind to dive in and grab Hartley in a bear hug when the latter drew back his arm to smite Moss on the jaw Hartley would now be an ex-member of Sunnymere (golf clubs not taking kindly to members hitting each other, except with golf balls of course, which is unavoidable given the nature of the game and the skills of those participating in it). In the event Critchlow’s intervention, although not making Hartley any less angry with Moss, at least slowed him down enough for him to contemplate what might be the possible outcome
should he succeed in carrying out the assault on his playing partner. Common sense prevailed after a few moments and Hartley visibly calmed down. Critchlow released him, whereupon Hartley, not trusting himself to say another word, grabbed hold of his trolley and marched back down the fairway and off the course. He had played just two hundred and thirty yards of the first of the eighteen holes. A new record.

  *

  On his way to deal in no uncertain terms with Daddy Rhythm Mr Captain was surprised by the sight of two police constables accompanied by a small boy making their way on to the golf course. Mr Captain’s hackles rose immediately. Sunnymere Golf Club was private property and could be visited only at the invitation of a member, and he was quite certain that no one would have offered an invitation to two uniformed policemen and a scruffy little boy, and especially on Captain’s Day. He waited until they were almost level with him then stepped in front of them and said, “Yes, can I help you?” in a tone of voice which made it quite clear that it would be highly unlikely he would be able to help anyone who had obviously no right to be there in the first place.

  Constable Fearon did not like golf. As a sport he rated it somewhere between topless darts and synchronized tiddlywinks. A dyed-in-the-wool Labour Party supporter of the old school he had always held the opinion that golf was a class-ridden game and that those who played it were fancy-trousered dickheads, and had once expressed the opinion that if golfers were to appear in the street in the same clothes in which they paraded themselves on the golf course they would be locked up, and he would like to be the one who did the locking up.

  If he had little time for golfers he had even less time for golfers who had recently abused his son by tying him to a golf trolley with a pair of shoelaces and had then proceeded to cart him round the golf course for a few holes, and about the same amount of time for ones dressed in plus fours and stupid tartan hats like the one confronting him at the moment.