Captain's Day

by Terry Ravenscroft

  Furthermore he was far better at detecting irony than he would ever be at detecting crime, and Mr Captain's condescending 'Yes, can I help you?' had done nothing to improve his opinion of golfers, and was the reason he now gave him even shorter shrift than he would normally have given to a golfer. “Out of the bleeding way, Severiano,” he snarled, pushing Mr Captain aside.

  Mr Captain was a law abiding citizen; however the constables were on the golf course, his golf course, of which he was the captain, and if anyone was going anywhere, policemen or no policemen, he would know the reason why. “And what is the purpose of your visit?” he demanded, tracking back and getting himself in front of Constable Fearon again and barring his way.

  Fearon stopped and regarded Mr Captain as though he were a petty criminal he had just apprehended whilst trying to mug an old lady. “Not that it's any of your business but my child has reported to me that one of your golfers has abused him,” he said, indicating Jason, who was clearly enjoying the confrontation.

  “One of our golfers?” Mr Captain shook his head violently. “Quite impossible. When is this unlikely scenario supposed to have happened?”

  “It isn’t supposed to have happened, it did happen. Earlier this morning. He tied him to his golf trolley.”

  “Tied him to his golf trolley?” Mr Captain shook his head again. “A golfer would never do that. Especially not a Sunnymere member. There must be some mistake.”

  “Yes and the bent bastard who tied my boy to his trolley has made it. Show him your wrists, Jason.”

  Jason did as he was bidden. “They're all red see.” he said, pointing to the weals on his wrists. “Where the shoelaces dug in.”

  Mr Captain glanced at Jason’s wrists. “He probably did that to himself.”

  “I'll do you myself if you don't stop giving me lip and start co-operating,” said Fearon. “So who’s responsible for it?”

  “They called him Mr Vice, Dad.” said Jason. “The one who did it.”

  Fearon's face lit up. “Mr Vice? Why didn't you tell me that before?”

  “I've only just remembered.”

  Fearon scratched his chin. “Mr Vice, eh? So it would appear we could have a sexually-motivated crime on our hands.”

  Mr Captain didn’t care at all for the way the conversation was heading and now nipped in smartly to stop it heading any farther in that direction. “No, you misunderstand completely. Mr Vice isn't his real name. His real name is Robin Garland.”

  Fearon leapt onto this new development immediately. “So Mr Vice is an alias?”

  “What? No, he's just known as Mr Vice by the members.”

  “Why? What's he into this Mr Vice character? Sado-masochism I shouldn’t wonder, tying little boys up.”

  “Or he could be a paedophile,” said Constable James, now joining in the conversation, paedophile crimes being a speciality of his, as well as his hobby. “Sounds to me like he’s a paedophile, Fearo.”

  “He isn't anything of the sort,” protested Mr Captain. “He's a perfectly respectable gentleman.”

  “That's the impression they all give,” said Fearon, knowledgeably. “It’s a front; butter wouldn’t melt with some of the bastards. But what respectable man goes about tying kids up? Eh? Now get out of my way before I do you for obstructing a police officer in the course of his duty.”

  Mr Captain was not prepared to give up the battle just yet however. He now played his trump card. “I’m afraid it is quite impossible for you to go onto the golf course.”

  “What?”

  “You simply aren't allowed to. You're not a member.”

  Fearon fixed Mr Captain with a baleful stare. “A crime has been committed. In the pursuit of bringing the perpetrator of that crime to justice I can go anywhere I like. Understand?”

  Mr Captain knew there was no argument with Fearon’s contention so had no alternative but to beg. “But….look….I mean it's Captain's Day,” he said, plaintively.

  “What?”

  “It's Captain's Day. And I’m the Captain.”

  “I couldn't give a shit if it's the Admiral of the fucking Fleet's Day and you're Lord fucking Nelson, me and Constable James are going on that golf course and arresting the sado-masochist paedophile bastard who abused my son,” said Fearon, jabbing his finger into Mr Captain’s chest with every third or fourth word, and every single word of ‘sado-masochist paedophile bastard’. “Got that, sunshine?”

  Mr Captain had. And knew there wasn't a lot he could do about it. He just hoped it wouldn't spoil his day too much.

  *

  The reaction of Hanson and Galloway on seeing Mrs Quayle, Mrs Rattray and Mrs Salinas taking morning coffee behind the thirteenth green was similar to that of the Arbuthnott threesome a few minutes earlier.

  “Look at them,” scoffed Hanson, forgetting all his illnesses for a moment. “Have you ever seen anything like it in your life?”

  “Not outside a nuthouse,” said Galloway.

  Irwin was considerably more hostile than his playing partners about the situation that confronted them. “If I hit a bad shot through being put off by those old boilers,” he said, “I am going to take my putter and ram it up their arses.”

  “That's what my anal pain feels like, somebody shoving a putter up my bum,” said Hanson, Irwin’s words reminding him of one of his illnesses. “And did I mention my lumbago had come back?”

  *

  “Divot Large.”

  “Dodd G Swing.”

  “Shank Sallot.”

  *

  “Breast augmentation?” said Mrs Salinas, as Hanson's ball joined Galloway's on the green.

  “Well that’s what she said she wanted,” said Mrs Rattray. “Some people are never satisfied are they.”

  “I’m not sure how I feel about that sort of thing,” said Mrs Salinas. “Well to tell the truth it’s not something I’ve ever had to consider. I’ve always been quite content with my breasts.”

  “Well that goes for me too,” said Mrs Rattray, then counselled the opinion of Mrs Quayle. “How do you feel about breast augmentation, Miriam?”

  “Oh it’s not for me,” said Mrs Quayle, not even having to consider the question. “No, I’ve always been quite happy with just the two.”

  At that Mrs Salinas shrieked with laughter. Mrs Rattray joined in, equally enthusiastically.

  “Two’s company, three’s a crowd, as the saying goes,” Mrs Quayle went on gaily, causing Mrs Salinas to shriek out again.

  On the thirteenth tee Irwin, having just reached the top of his backswing when Mrs Salinas's first shriek broke the silence, just managed to pull out of his downswing at the cost of staggering forward a couple of steps and falling off the end of the tee. Absolutely livid, he got to his feet, brandished his club at the ladies and screeched “Bloody splitarses!” Then, as the laughter down on the green didn't show any signs of subsiding, he got back on the tee and bellowed “Fore!” at the top of his voice.

  “What's the matter with him?” said Mrs Rattray, looking up at the tee in response to Irwin's shout.

  “We're not in his way,” said Mrs Salinas. “So why on earth is he shouting fore?”

  Mrs Quayle shielded her eyes against the sun as she peered towards the tee. A moment later she recognised Irwin and pulled a face. “I do believe it's that man,” she said distastefully.

  “What man?” said Mrs Salinas.

  “What's his name? That man. You know, the one who was asleep on the bench behind the seventh tee on Ladies Day last year, snoring his head off. And when I poked him with my putter to wake him up he swore at me.”

  “Oh, that man,” said Mrs Rattray.

  *

  Armitage knew what the expression going on a trip meant but not having tried drugs previously the only trips he had ever been on were ones that went to the seaside or the Lake District. Even though one of these trips had included a trip to Morecambe and another a trip to Skegness on a wet Wednesday none of them had been anything nearly so bad as the trip h
e was experiencing at the moment, not even the pub trip to Blackpool from the Pan and Kettle when he and three friends had had far too much to drink in the Tower Bar and had gone roller-skating in Olympia and he’d ended up shitting in his trousers and vomiting over a couple from Accrington.

  The double vision had gone, thankfully, after he had hit on the idea of closing one eye, and had worked quite well until, robbed of peripheral vision to his left, he had walked into a tree and cracked his head.

  It had been replaced by fear. A terrible, all encompassing, abject fear. He couldn't for the life of him have told you what he was frightened about, only that it wasn't the fear of the unknown, or indeed of the known, but a fear ten times more frightening than both of them put together, and that if only it had gone away he would gladly have put up with seeing double or walking into trees and cracking his head or shitting in his trousers and vomiting over couples from Accrington every day for the rest of his life.

  *

  When Irwin had eventually taken his tee shot his ball had landed on the green and come to rest no more than six feet from the flagstick. Mrs Quayle, Mrs Rattray and Mrs Salinas had looked at the ball on the green, then at each other. Each of the ladies knew instinctively what had to be done. Mrs Quayle was the first to put their thoughts into words. “Well he certainly isn't going to win the Nearest the Pin competition.”

  “He most certainly is not,” agreed Mrs Rattray.

  “Not in the proverbial month of Sundays,” said Mrs Salinas.

  The matter settled, Mrs Quayle put down her coffee cup and chocolate digestive, got to her feet, walked purposefully to Irwin's ball and without ceremony kicked it off the green.

  “What's known as judicious use of the leather mashie, as they say in the vernacular I believe, ladies,” she said, as she made her way back to the folding chair she’d got from John Lewis’s.

  *

  “So that's one orange juice and two pints of bitter, if I remember rightly?” said the Lady Captain to Mr Harkness, Mr Oldknow and Mr Wormald on their return to the beer tent after they’d deposited Millicent Fridlington round the back of it. “Unless you'd like something a little stronger, now your daughter isn't around, Mr Harkness?” she added, with a knowing wink to Millicent’s father.

  Millicent safely out of the way for the time being Harkness leapt at the opportunity. “I don't mind if I do, my dear.”

  “My late husband Bobby used to say that a pint of bitter always went down better when it was accompanied by a chaser,” said the Lady Captain temptingly, putting a pint glass under the firkin of beer and opening the tap.

  “Your late husband Bobby knew what he was talking about,” said Oldknow.

  “So that will be three whiskies in addition to the three pints of bitter then, gentlemen?”

  “Doubles,” said Wormald.

  *

  The three ladies were waiting on the green with the tape measure as Galloway, Hanson and Irwin approached.

  Mrs Quayle gave them a pleasant smile and trilled, “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  Galloway touched his cap and greeted the measuring party; it didn’t cost anything and Mrs Rattray was a near neighbour. “Ladies.”

  “Lovely day,” said Mrs Salinas.

  “Well it would be if it wasn't for my neck and my back,” agreed Hanson.

  “Really?” said Mrs Rattray. “What's the matter with them?”

  However before Hanson had chance to regale Mrs Rattray with the latest bulletin on his neck and back Irwin realised his ball wasn't on the green.

  “Where's my ball?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Is that it over there?” said Mrs Quayle, with a display of innocence that would have done credit to a virgin bride, pointing to Irwin's ball in the shallow bunker guarding the front left of the green.

  Irwin hit the roof. “It landed right next to the flagstick!”

  “That's right,” said Mrs Salinas. “It did. Then it set off again. Didn't it, ladies?”

  “Like they do,” said Mrs Rattray.

  “Backspin, I believe,” said Mrs Quayle, knowledgeably. “It’s you men, you’re so powerful. We women can't generate anything like so much backspin, if any at all, can we ladies?” Mrs Salinas and Mrs Rattray concurred. Mrs Quayle went on, “We’re so envious of you. And you were quite close to the hole at one stage, Mr Irwin. But c’est la vie.” She turned her attention to Galloway and Hanson. “Now I wonder which of you two gentlemen will be taking the early lead?”

  “I slightly favour Mr Galloway’s ball but it’s a close run thing by the look of it,” said Mrs Salinas, taking one end of the tape measure and making for Hanson’s ball. “We shall have to be extra careful.”

  “You moved it,” accused Irwin, to Mrs Quayle. “You moved my ball!”

  “Don't be such a silly-billy,” said Mrs Quayle. “Why would I do a thing like that?”

  Now that he'd realised what must have happened Irwin dispensed with further chit-chat and cut straight to the chase. “Silly-billy? I'll show you who's a silly-billy, you bloody cow,” he said, advancing on Mrs Quayle, arms outstretched in front of him, hands automatically forming neck-sized pincers with which to strangle her.

  Mrs Quayle, realising she may have gone too far, began to back away alarmed. “Stop! What do you think you’re doing?” she squealed, as Irwin made a grab for her, which she just managed to avoid by jumping smartly backwards. Before he could make another grab at her she pulled herself up to her full height of five feet two inches and commanded, “Don't touch me! Don't you dare touch me, you hear!”

  *

  In the excitement of dealing with the policemen Mr Captain had forgotten all about Daddy Rhythm and the revolting song he had played for all the world to hear, but now remembering it he strode out for the clubhouse. However when he got there the disc-jockey had left. Mr Captain made a note to deal with the matter prior to the dance commencing that evening, before the reprobate had the chance to play even so much as a single note of his disgusting music.

  10.50 a.m.

  G Burton (2)

  R Tinson (12)

  D Tollemache (16)

  Both Dave Tollemache and Graham Burton threw their golf clubs with such regularity that they were known for their club-throwing antics far more than they were for their skill at the game of golf, which in the case of Burton was considerable, in the case of Tollemache less so.

  One of Tollemache's claims to fame, though by no means the most unusual one, was that in his disappointment and rage at missing an eighteen inch putt he had once thrown his putter high into the branches of the large oak tree behind the fourth green, where it had become lodged. Despite throwing things at it in an effort to dislodge it, including another club, which had also stopped up there, the putter had steadfastly refused to budge and Tollemache had been forced to continue without it, putting for the remainder of the round with a one iron. This state of affairs had continued until the eighth hole, where he had used the one iron for its correct purpose of driving from the tee, and had hit the ball out of bounds. In his anger Tollemache had flung the one iron even farther out of bounds than he had hit the ball, and although he found the ball after a couple of minutes searching for the club he had less luck in finding the club, and had had to continue his round putting with his two iron. Thankfully the two iron survived all eighteen holes, which is more than can be said for his three wood, which he threw after hitting a very poor drive at the twelfth, the persimmon head of the club parting company with the shaft on smashing into a stone horse trough, persimmon, although devilishly hard, not being anything like so hard as millstone grit.

  In 1984 Tollemache had written to the sport’s lawmakers, the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews, on the subject of the carrying no more than fourteen clubs rule, asking for special dispensation to carry fifteen clubs at the start of his round on the grounds that he either lost or damaged beyond repair at least one of his clubs on the way round, and therefore he needed the extra club to make up his quota at the fin
ish of his round so as not to be at a disadvantage; however that august body wisely turned down his request, obviously fearful of setting a precedent.

  Tollemache’s record for throwing clubs was nine in one round, and his record distance fifty seven yards with a six iron at the tenth, according to his playing partner Simon Pemberton, a chartered surveyor, who had paced out the exact yardage. And he had once brought down a black-headed gull in full flight with a sand wedge, prompting the wittier of his playing partners to comment that it was his first birdie of the day. It wasn't his last, because at the tenth, after ripping up his card and looking for some alternative sport to fill in the time while his partners continued their round, he had thrown another of his clubs at a hovering skylark and bagged it at the third attempt.

  It was the first time Tollemache had ever actually aimed at something, all previous club-throwing owing its genesis to anger rather than any desire to hit a target. Encouraged by this early success he took the decision to always aim at something in future, preferably something for the pot, a wood pigeon perhaps, or one of the many rabbits that abounded and bounded on the course, as he was a lover of game and his wife was a dab hand at cooking it. In the event however he was always so angry when he threw a club that he forgot all about his pledge, and the pot remained empty and Mrs Tollemache’s culinary skills with game never called upon.

  Graham Burton was no less adept nor constant in his club-throwing activities, but although he was not averse to throwing a single club now and again his favoured method of club-throwing was to throw all his clubs at once, usually, but not always, while they were still in his golf bag. On one occasion, on the near-completion of a particularly bad round, he had thrown bag, clubs, golf trolley and all into the large pond by the seventeenth green, before stalking off the course vowing that he would never be seen on the golf course again, and that if somebody did happen to see him on the golf course again they should shoot him. In fact he was seen on it again only five minutes later after he'd realised his car keys were in his golf bag and he'd had to wade into the middle of the pond to recover them, the ensuing embarrassment only serving to strengthen his resolve never to return.