by Ian Fleming
Bond swallowed. Blast his eyes! How the hell had Goldfinger managed that? Now, out of sour grapes, Bond must try for his two. He went for it, missed the hole by an inch and rolled a good yard past. Hell and damnation! Bond walked slowly up to the putt, knocking Goldfinger’s ball away. Come on, you bloody fool! But the spectre of the big swing – from an almost certain one up to a possible one down – made Bond wish the ball into the hole instead of tapping it in. The coaxed ball, lacking decision, slid past the lip. One down!
Now Bond was angry with himself. He, and he alone, had lost that hole. He had taken three putts from twenty feet. He really must pull himself together and get going.
At the seventh, five hundred yards, they both hit good drives and Goldfinger’s immaculate second lay fifty yards short of the green. Bond took his brassie. Now for the equalizer! But he hit from the top, his club head came down too far ahead of the hands and the smothered ball shot into one of the right-hand bunkers. Not a good lie, but he must put it on the green. Bond took a dangerous seven and failed to get it out. Goldfinger got his five. Two down. They halved the short eighth in three. At the ninth Bond, determined to turn only one down, again tried to do too much off a poor lie. Goldfinger got his four to Bond’s five. Three down at the turn! Not too good. Bond asked Hawker for a new ball. Hawker unwrapped it slowly, waiting for Goldfinger to walk over the hillock to the next tee. Hawker said softly, ‘You saw what he did at The Virgin, sir?’
‘Yes, damn him. It was an amazing shot.’
Hawker was surprised. ‘Oh, you didn’t see what he did in the bunker, sir?’
‘No, what? I was too far away.’
The other two were out of sight over the rise. Hawker silently walked down into one of the bunkers guarding the ninth green, kicked a hole with his toe and dropped the ball in the hole. He then stood just behind the half-buried ball with his feet close together. He looked up at Bond. ‘Remember he jumped up to look at the line to the hole, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just watch this, sir.’ Hawker looked towards the ninth pin and jumped, just as Goldfinger had done, as if to get the line. Then he looked up at Bond again and pointed to the ball at his feet. The heavy impact of the two feet just behind the ball had levelled the hole in which it had lain and had squeezed the ball out so that it was now perfectly teed for an easy shot – for just the easy cut-up shot which had seemed utterly impossible from Goldfinger’s lie at The Virgin.
Bond looked at his caddie for a moment in silence. Then he said, ‘Thanks, Hawker. Give me the bat and the ball. Somebody’s going to be second in this match, and I’m damned if it’s going to be me.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Hawker stolidly. He limped off on the short cut that would take him half way down the tenth fairway.
Bond sauntered slowly over the rise and down to the tenth tee. He hardly looked at Goldfinger who was standing on the tee swishing his driver impatiently. Bond was clearing his mind of everything but cold, offensive resolve. For the first time since the first tee, he felt supremely confident. All he needed was a sign from heaven and his game would catch fire.
The tenth at the Royal St Marks is the most dangerous hole on the course. The second shot, to the skiddy plateau green with cavernous bunkers to right and left and a steep hill beyond, has broken many hearts. Bond remembered that Philip Scrutton, out in four under fours in the Gold Bowl, had taken a fourteen at this hole, seven of them ping-pong shots from one bunker to another, to and fro across the green. Bond knew that Goldfinger would play his second to the apron, or short of it, and be glad to get a five. Bond must go for it and get his four.
Two good drives and, sure enough, Goldfinger well up on the apron with his second. A possible four. Bond took his seven, laid off plenty for the breeze and fired the ball off into the sky. At first he thought he had laid off too much, but then the ball began to float to the left. It pitched and stopped dead in the soft sand blown on to the green from the right-hand bunker. A nasty fifteen-foot putt. Bond would now be glad to get a half. Sure enough, Goldfinger putted up to within a yard. That, thought Bond as he squared up to his putt, he will have to hole. He hit his own putt fairly smartly to get it through the powdering of sand and was horrified to see it going like lightning across the skiddy green. God, he was going to have not a yard, but a two-yard putt back! But suddenly, as if drawn by a magnet, the ball swerved straight for the hole, hit the back of the tin, bounced up and fell into the cup with an audible rattle. The sign from heaven! Bond went up to Hawker, winked at him and took his driver.
They left the caddies and walked down the slope and back to the next tee. Goldfinger said coldly, ‘That putt ought to have run off the green.’
Bond said off-handedly, ‘Always give the hole a chance!’ He teed up his ball and hit his best drive of the day down the breeze. Wedge and one putt? Goldfinger hit his regulation shot and they walked off again. Bond said, ‘By the way, what happened to that nice Miss Masterton?’
Goldfinger looked straight in front of him. ‘She left my employ.’
Bond thought, good for her! He said, ‘Oh, I must get in touch with her again. Where did she go to?’
‘I couldn’t say.’ Goldfinger walked away from Bond towards his ball. Bond’s drive was out of sight, over the ridge that bisected the fairway. It wouldn’t be more than fifty yards from the pin. Bond thought he knew what would be in Goldfinger’s mind, what is in most golfers’ minds when they smell the first scent of a good lead melting away. Bond wouldn’t be surprised to see that grooved swing quicken a trifle. It did. Goldfinger hooked into a bunker on the left of the green.
Now was the moment when it would be the end of the game if Bond made a mistake, let his man off the hook. He had a slightly downhill lie, otherwise an easy chip – but to the trickiest green on the course. Bond played it like a man. The ball ended six feet from the pin. Goldfinger played well out of his bunker, but missed the longish putt. Now Bond was only one down.
They halved the dog-leg twelfth in inglorious fives and the longish thirteenth also in fives, Goldfinger having to hole a good putt to do so.
Now a tiny cleft of concentration had appeared on Goldfinger’s massive, unlined forehead. He took a drink of water from the tap beside the fourteenth tee. Bond waited for him. He didn’t want a sharp clang from that tin cup when it was out-of-bounds over the fence to the right and the drive into the breeze favouring a slice! Bond brought his left hand over to increase his draw and slowed down his swing. The drive, well to the left, was only just adequate, but at least it had stayed in bounds. Goldfinger, apparently unmoved by the out-of-bounds hazard, hit his standard shot. They both negotiated the transverse canal without damage and it was another half in five. Still one down and now only four to play.
The four hundred and sixty yards fifteenth is perhaps the only hole where the long hitter may hope to gain one clear shot. Two smashing woods will just get you over the line of bunkers that lie right up against the green. Goldfinger had to play short of them with his second. He could hardly improve on a five and it was up to Bond to hit a really godlike second shot from a barely adequate drive.
The sun was on its way down and the shadows of the four men were beginning to lengthen. Bond had taken up his stance. It was a good lie. He had kept his driver. There was dead silence as he gave his two incisive waggles. This was going to be a vital stroke. Remember to pause at the top of the swing, come down slow and whip the club head through at the last second. Bond began to take the club back. Something moved at the corner of his right eye. From nowhere the shadow of Goldfinger’s huge head approached the ball on the ground, engulfed it and moved on. Bond let his swing take itself to pieces in sections. Then he stood away from his ball and looked up. Goldfinger’s feet were still moving. He was looking carefully up at the sky.
‘Shades please, Goldfinger.’ Bond’s voice was furiously controlled.
Goldfinger stopped and looked slowly at Bond. The eyebrows were raised a fraction in inquiry. He moved back and stood
still, saying nothing.
Bond went back to his ball. Now then, relax! To hell with Goldfinger. Slam that ball on to the green. Just stand still and hit it. There was a moment when the world stood still, then ... then somehow Bond did hit it – on a low trajectory that mounted gracefully to carry the distant surf of the bunkers. The ball hit the bank below the green, bounced high with the impact and rolled out of sight into the saucer round the pin.
Hawker came up and took the driver out of Bond’s hand. They walked on together. Hawker said seriously, ‘That’s one of the finest shots I’ve seen in thirty years.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I thought he’d fixed you then, sir.’
‘He damned nearly did, Hawker. It was Alfred Blacking that hit that ball, not me.’ Bond took out his cigarettes, gave one to Hawker and lit his own. He said quietly, ‘All square and three to play. We’ve got to watch those next three holes. Know what I mean?’
‘Don’t you worry, sir. I’ll keep my eye on him.’
They came up with the green. Goldfinger had pitched on and had a long putt for a four, but Bond’s ball was only two inches away from the hole. Goldfinger picked up his ball and walked off the green. They halved the short sixteenth in good threes. Now there were the two long holes home. Fours would win them. Bond hit a fine drive down the centre. Goldfinger pushed his far out to the right into deep rough. Bond walked along trying not to be too jubilant, trying not to count his chickens. A win for him at this hole and he would only need a half at the eighteenth for the match. He prayed that Goldfinger’s ball would be unplayable or, better still, lost.
Hawker had gone on ahead. He had already laid down his bag and was busily – far too busily to Bond’s way of thinking – searching for Goldfinger’s ball when they came up.
It was bad stuff – jungle country, deep thick luxuriant grass whose roots still held last night’s dew. Unless they were very lucky, they couldn’t hope to find the ball. After a few minutes’ search Goldfinger and his caddie drifted away still wider to where the rough thinned out into isolated tufts. That’s good, thought Bond. That wasn’t anything like the line. Suddenly he trod on something. Hell and damnation. Should he stamp it in? He shrugged his shoulders, bent down and gently uncovered the ball so as not to improve the lie. Yes it was a Dunlop 65. ‘Here you are,’ he called grudgingly. ‘Oh no, sorry. You play with a Number One, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ came back Goldfinger’s voice impatiently.
‘Well, this is a Number Seven.’ Bond picked it up and walked over to Goldfinger.
Goldfinger gave the ball a cursory glance. He said, ‘Not mine,’ and went on poking among the tufts with the head of his driver.
It was a good ball, unmarked and almost new. Bond put it in his pocket and went back to his search. He glanced at his watch. The statutory five minutes was almost up. Another half-minute and by God he was going to claim the hole. Strict rules of golf, Goldfinger had stipulated. All right my friend, you shall have them!
Goldfinger was casting back towards Bond, diligently prodding and shuffling through the grass.
Bond said, ‘Nearly time, I’m afraid.’
Goldfinger grunted. He started to say something when there came a cry from his caddie, ‘Here you are, sir. Number One Dunlop.’
Bond followed Goldfinger over to where the caddie stood on a small plateau of higher ground. He was pointing down. Bond bent and inspected the ball. Yes, an almost new Dunlop One and in an astonishingly good lie. It was miraculous – more than miraculous. Bond stared hard from Goldfinger to his caddie. ‘Must have had the hell of a lucky kick,’ he said mildly.
The caddie shrugged his shoulders. Goldfinger’s eyes were calm, untroubled. ‘So it would seem.’ He turned to his caddie. ‘I think we can get a spoon to that one, Foulks.’
Bond walked thoughtfully away and then turned to watch the shot. It was one of Goldfinger’s best. It soared over a far shoulder of rough towards the green. Might just have caught the bunker on the right.
Bond walked on to where Hawker, a long blade of grass dangling from his wry lips, was standing on the fairway watching the shot finish. Bond smiled bitterly at him. He said in a controlled voice, ‘Is my good friend in the bunker, or is the bastard on the green?’
‘Green, sir,’ said Hawker unemotionally.
Bond went up to his ball. Now things had got tough again. Once more he was fighting for a half after having a certain win in his pocket. He glanced towards the pin, gauging the distance. This was a tricky one. He said, ‘Five or six?’
‘The six should do it, sir. Nice firm shot.’ Hawker handed him the club.
Now then, clear your mind. Keep it slow and deliberate. It’s an easy shot. Just punch it so that it’s got plenty of zip to get up the bank and on to the green. Stand still and head down. Click! The ball, hit with a slightly closed face, went off on just the medium trajectory Bond had wanted. It pitched below the bank. It was perfect! No, damn it. It had hit the bank with its second bounce, stopped dead, hesitated and then rolled back and down again. Hell’s bells! Was it Hagen who had said, ‘You drive for show, but you putt for dough’? Getting dead from below that bank was one of the most difficult putts on the course. Bond reached for his cigarettes and lit one, already preparing his mind for the next crucial shot to save the hole – so long as that bastard Goldfinger didn’t hole his from thirty feet!
Hawker walked along by his side. Bond said, ‘Miracle finding that ball.’
‘It wasn’t his ball, sir.’ Hawker was stating a fact.
‘What do you mean?’ Bond’s voice was tense.
‘Money passed, sir. White, probably a fiver. Foulks must have dropped that ball down his trouser leg.’
‘Hawker!’ Bond stopped in his tracks. He looked round. Goldfinger and his caddie were fifty yards away, walking slowly towards the green. Bond said fiercely, ‘Do you swear to that? How can you be sure?’
Hawker gave a half-ashamed, lop-sided grin. But there was a crafty belligerence in his eye. ‘Because his ball was lying under my bag of clubs, sir.’ When he saw Bond’s open-mouthed expression he added apologetically, ‘Sorry, sir. Had to do it after what he’s been doing to you. Wouldn’t have mentioned it, but I had to let you know he’s fixed you again.’
Bond had to laugh. He said admiringly, ‘Well, you are a card, Hawker. So you were going to win the match for me all on your own!’ He added bitterly, ‘But, by God, that man’s the flaming limit. I’ve got to get him. I’ve simply got to. Now let’s think!’ They walked slowly on.
Bond’s left hand was in his trousers pocket, absentmindedly fingering the ball he had picked up in the rough. Suddenly the message went to his brain. Got it! He came close to Hawker. He glanced across at the others. Goldfinger had stopped. His back was to Bond and he was taking the putter out of his bag. Bond nudged Hawker. ‘Here, take this.’ He slipped the ball into the gnarled hand. Bond said softly, urgently, ‘Be certain you take the flag. When you pick up the balls from the green, whichever way the hole has gone, give Goldfinger this one. Right?’
Hawker walked stolidly forward. His face was expressionless. ‘Got it, sir,’ he said in his normal voice. ‘Will you take the putter for this one?’
‘Yes.’ Bond walked up to his ball. ‘Give me a line, would you?’
Hawker walked up on to the green. He stood sideways to the line of the putt and then stalked round to behind the flag and crouched. He got up. ‘Inch outside the right lip, sir. Firm putt. Flag, sir?’
‘No. Leave it in, would you.’
Hawker stood away. Goldfinger was standing by his ball on the right of the green. His caddie had stopped at the bottom of the slope. Bond bent to the putt. Come on, Calamity Jane! This one has got to go dead or I’ll put you across my knee. Stand still. Club head straight back on the line and follow through towards the hole. Give it a chance. Now! The ball, hit firmly in the middle of the club, had run up the bank and was on its way to the hole. But too hard, damn it! Hit the stick! Obediently the ball curved in, rapped the stick
hard and bounced back three inches – dead as a doornail!
Bond let out a deep sigh and picked up his discarded cigarette. He looked over at Goldfinger. Now then, you bastard. Sweat that one out. And by God if you hole it! But Goldfinger couldn’t afford to try. He stopped two feet short. ‘All right, all right,’ said Bond generously. ‘All square and one to go.’ It was vital that Hawker should pick up the balls. If he had made Goldfinger hole the short putt it would have been Goldfinger who would have picked the ball out of the hole. Anyway, Bond didn’t want Goldfinger to miss that putt. That wasn’t part of the plan.
Hawker bent down and picked up the balls. He rolled one towards Bond and handed the other to Goldfinger. They walked off the green, Goldfinger leading as usual. Bond noticed Hawker’s hand go to his pocket. Now, so long as Goldfinger didn’t notice anything on the tee!
But, with all square and one to go, you don’t scrutinize your ball. Your motions are more or less automatic. You are thinking of how to place your drive, of whether to go for the green with the second or play to the apron, of the strength of the wind – of the vital figure four that must somehow be achieved to win or at least to halve.
Considering that Bond could hardly wait for Goldfinger to follow him and hit, just once, that treacherous Dunlop Number Seven that looked so very like a Number One, Bond’s own drive down the four hundred and fifty yard eighteenth was praiseworthy. If he wanted to, he could now reach the green – if he wanted to!
Now Goldfinger was on the tee. Now he had bent down. The ball was on the peg, its lying face turned up at him. But Goldfinger had straightened, had stood back, was taking his two deliberate practice swings. He stepped up to the ball, cautiously, deliberately. Stood over it, waggled, focusing the ball minutely. Surely he would see! Surely he would stop and bend down at the last minute to inspect the ball! Would the waggle never end? But now the club head was going back, coming down, the left knee bent correctly in towards the ball, the left arm straight as a ramrod. Crack! The ball sailed off, a beautiful drive, as good as Goldfinger had hit, straight down the fairway.
