by J M Gregson
He was not only good at operating the various machinery needed on a golf course, but good at maintaining it. He had serviced the mowers and the chainsaws which had been bought second-hand in the early years of the course. When the old tractor – which was their single powered vehicle in the early days – broke down, Alan Fitch had usually been able to diagnose the problem. He had even been prepared to tour the scrapyards of Gloucestershire in pursuit of cheap replacement parts, and he had fitted them himself.
His title had recently been elevated to Head Greenkeeper, for he now had Barry Hooper as his workforce. Fitch was a stern taskmaster, prone to hark back to those early days of the course, which became ever more attractive in retrospect. When Barry had arrived as a junior and temporary employee, Alan had been frankly suspicious of the black boy and his motives. How much of this was down to racial prejudice, even Alan Fitch himself could not have determined. He had trained himself not to think deeply about such things, having had for many years to accept the decisions of those around him. He had worked with a variety of nations during his days at sea, but that was a long time ago, when white British people on British ships had just accepted that ‘the foreigners’ would not be promoted beyond a certain level.
Barry Hooper won him over. Whatever the wiry young lad really thought, he accepted his boss’s early strictures without complaint. ‘Keep your head down and get on with it, whatever you might think. You’re not paid to think,’ Alan Fitch had said to him on his first morning. To the greenkeeper’s secret surprise, Barry Hooper did just that.
‘Right, boss,’ was his standard response to any command; then he went away and did it. But he was not cowed. Barry did not always understand exactly what was necessary, but when he needed advice he asked for it. The nature of the work meant that the pair were a two-man team, which was supplemented only on those rare occasions when an outside contractor was brought in for some specialist task. Most of the work on the course they did together, with Alan Fitch always as the senior and directing partner.
They made an unlikely pair, the stocky, powerful 55-year-old, with his heavily lined forehead and his tattooed arms, and the slim, swift, young coloured man who responded to his every suggestion. But they had some things in common. Hooper, who had never had the opportunity to work in the open air in his chequered pattern of previous employment, discovered that he loved the outdoor life and the wide skies above him as much as did the man who had spent eleven years at sea.
Fitch, who had been born and bred in Gloucestershire, taught his protégé about the birds and the wild flowers which were their friends and the coarse grasses and weeds which were their enemies upon the course. And Barry Hooper thrived upon every minute of it. He grew to love the changing seasons and the way they manifested themselves in his new small world of the golf course. He had revelled in the long days of summer, and in the months to come, even the winter rains and frosts would be welcome to a young man who had chafed in a factory and sweated in a slaughterhouse during previous periods of employment.
He was enjoying this unexpected period of calm, sunny days at the end of November, as much as any weather so far. It was too late to be an Indian summer, but it was a balmy autumn bonus, before the trees were stripped of leaves and the water froze on the little pond on the third. Barry Hooper sang as he went about his work, and Alan Fitch smiled a happy inner smile, even as he pretended to rebuke this relentless cheerfulness in his workforce.
On this last afternoon of November, they were extending the tee on the fourth hole, and Barry was enjoying the learning process this involved for him. They had levelled the ground weeks ago. It had seemed flat and ready for the new turf to Barry, but Fitch had explained that the ground needed to settle before they could even think about laying turf. They had left it for ten days, then come back and raked and trodden the patch again, with the older man full of amusement at his assistant’s impatience to have the job completed.
Now they gave the ground its final preparation, with Fitch using a spirit level attached to a plank to get the ground exactly level, setting a standard which he knew the younger man would adhere to in the years to come. ‘Half an inch below the existing level, remember!’ he said sternly. ‘Remember, two hours spent on preparation saves days of work on reparation.’ He was rather proud of that maxim, which he had invented for himself.
‘You said the new turf was an inch thick. Surely that means an inch lower!’ said Barry triumphantly. He’d show the boss that he’d been paying attention to everything he said: if he could catch him out at the same time, that would be doubly satisfying.
Fitch smiled into the eager, mischievous young face. ‘We lay half an inch proud of the existing tee,’ he insisted. ‘There’ll still be some settlement as the new turf beds in, and that and the many feet that are going to tread upon it will lower our new patch by about half an inch. That’s the theory, and those are the measurements we work to. But full marks for paying attention!’
Fitch looked at the sky as they finished the work. ‘This weather looks settled for a while longer yet. We’ll get the turf laid, day after tomorrow. With a bit of luck, the roots will get a hold before the real winter sets in. This new patch’ll be ready to use by next May. We’ll put the tee right at the back for the club championship. Bit of extra length will suit lads like you, with more brawn than brains!’
He grinned affectionately at Hooper, who had recently been introduced to the mysteries of golf, but the young man’s face clouded suddenly. ‘I might not be here then,’ he said dolefully. Six months was a long time ahead in his young life. He had never held a job for that long until now, and he realized suddenly how much this one meant to him.
Fitch smiled a knowing smile, but kept his news until they were back in the greenkeeper’s shed, with the kettle coming to the boil and the milk ready in the beakers. ‘Got something to tell you,’ he said. He didn’t look at the younger man, being beset with a sudden and uncharacteristic diffidence because he had good news to deliver.
The owner had confirmed the appointment with his manager, and the manager had told his greenkeeper. Now the greenkeeper was to communicate the tidings to the young man it most concerned. That was the way things operated at Camellia Park; it reinforced the unstated hierarchy of the team, but gave each tier of it in turn a little pleasure.
Fitch was pouring the boiling water into the teapot by the time he said, as casually as he could, ‘I’ve got some good news for you, young Hooper. At least I hope it’s good. Job’s yours on a permanent basis if you want it, and there’ll be a small rise for you in the new year.’ He delivered his tidings all in a rush, finding the good news was suddenly an embarrassment to him, instead of the pleasure he had anticipated.
Barry for his part could scarcely contain his joy. He made a brief attempt to accept the news in the matter-of-fact, man-to-man way in which it had been delivered, but his unlined black countenance shone with a pleasure he could not disguise and his smile stretched towards the ears at the sides of the slim face. ‘I won’t let you down, Mr Fitch!’ he said tremulously, when he could finally trust himself with words.
Alan Fitch thought of pointing out that it wasn’t his decision, that all he could do was recommend the appointment. He wanted to say that this was no more than a hard-working and conscientious employee deserved. Instead, he said nothing, and the two men drank their tea in a comfortable silence, their world as perfect as the autumn weather outside the shed.
It would be a long time before either of them felt quite so comfortable again.
Joanne Moss had never thought the job would develop as it had. When she had taken it on seven years ago, ‘Catering Manager’ had been a grandiose title. She had worked part-time then, serving a few refreshments at weekends in the tiny wooden hut which served as a clubhouse for the little golf course in its early days.
But the demand for after-golf amenities had grown with the success of Camellia Park, had even outstripped the growth of the course. For the last three years, she
had operated in a new brick-built, one-storey building behind the office where the green fees were taken and golf equipment sold. Now there was a bar and a weekend steward; Joanne had a new and well-equipped kitchen, and the Sunday lunches provided for members and guests were one of the features of the club which made it most popular. ‘Just like a real golf club!’ she heard people say appreciatively, unconscious of any irony in the phrase.
Like most of the people at the little course, Joanne Moss was proud of what she had achieved. She had taken the job as no more than a stop-gap, as she collected herself amidst the debris of a messy divorce. She had intended to acquire a little money from it whilst the terms of the settlement were argued, then move on to pastures new: at twenty-nine, there was plenty of time to make a different life for herself.
Catering wasn’t even her field of expertise. In her previous working life, Joanne Moss had managed a small but busy office. But she had always enjoyed cooking, and she could manage the rudimentary stuff which was needed – when Patrick Nayland had approached her, the course had only been open for three years and everything about it was still rough around the edges.
Seven years later, she had a full-time job, two part-time staff, the appreciation of the members, and a sense of achievement which made the shattered self-esteem of her divorce seem to belong to another world. She also had a new relationship, which at once excited and frightened her. She wasn’t quite sure yet where it was going, but she wasn’t planning to opt out of the discovery process. It wasn’t going to be easy for Joanne Moss to move on from Camellia Park.
The club now served simple meals at every lunchtime, meeting a demand which had grown as the reputation of the weekend catering spread. Wednesday was the busiest day midweek, but by four o’clock on this perfect November afternoon, the rush was over and Joanne had time to watch Alan Fitch repairing to his favourite greenkeeper’s shed with young Barry Hooper, who was listening avidly as usual to his mentor’s every word.
Joanne smiled as she watched the pair, reflecting on how good the bond was for both of them, the older man with no son to shape in a dangerous world and the youngster who had taken to the work on the course like a duckling to water. Everyone liked young Barry. He was willing to turn his hand to everything about the place, cheerful and unquestioning without being over-deferential.
She guessed that Alan would be telling him in his lair that he had been added to the permanent staff of the club. Everyone would be happy about that. It was sound economics, not sentiment: you didn’t get many people as reliable and hard-working as Barry, not at the kind of money you paid to junior greens staff.
Chris Pearson had come into her kitchen and consulted her before he had decided to recommend to Nayland that Hooper should be made permanent. She had been pleased by the gesture, though she had said that it wasn’t really anything to do with her. Chris had maintained that it was only common sense to consult her, because Hooper would be called upon to help her during slack periods on the course. She had been enthusiastic about the young black man, as Pearson had known that she would be. Everyone liked Barry.
The manager came in again as she was switching off all the appliances and preparing to leave. He was a handsome man, mature and confident, just under six feet tall, with dark hair that showed no sign of thinning in his late forties. But theirs was strictly a working relationship. Chris Pearson had never even made a pass at her, which she had appreciated, particularly in those early days when men gathered round an attractive divorcee like the proverbial bees round the honeypot, and she had sometimes felt that she could smell the lust in the air.
Pearson was never less than friendly, and she couldn’t recall a single dispute about the way she ran her section of the enterprise. He listened carefully to what she had to say, generally agreed that it made sense, and occasionally added some small suggestion of his own, which was invariably thoughtful and often helpful. But there was a reserve about him which she had grown used to over the years. In the early days, she had been thankful for it; nowadays it occasionally rankled her, for reasons she could not define.
She was aware now, for instance, that he had something to say, that he would not have come into her kitchen for social reasons, but he did not immediately produce it. There would be a little period of social fencing before he announced the real reason for his visit, pleasant enough between two people who liked each other, but unnecessary, and therefore a trifle irritating.
She decided to take the initiative and talk business. ‘I assume Patrick will want me to do the usual Christmas dinner for the staff,’ she said. ‘It means closing the place for our regular customers, but there won’t be many complaints in December, so long as we give them a few days’ notice. We might even get one of those deluges which means no one is able to play golf on the day, at that time of year.’
‘There won’t be any need for you to close, this year. We won’t be asking you to do our Christmas lunch,’ said Chris Pearson. Then, as if he realized he had spoken abruptly, he smiled and said, ‘We’ll all miss your turkey and trimmings, but I don’t expect you will miss all the work.’
‘I don’t mind the work, not really. And I enjoy watching us all make fools of ourselves, with paper hats and silly jokes from crackers.’
‘It’s ten years since we started, though I know we’d been going for three of them before we had the good sense to bring you in. Patrick feels he ought to take us all out to celebrate. To Soutters Restaurant in Newent.’ He added the name of the place as if anxious to assure her that there was no slur on her own efforts.
‘He’s pushing the boat out, isn’t he?’
‘I expect he can afford it, once every ten years.’ Alan grinned at her conspiratorially, an unexpected expression which cut through his normal reserve.
‘And when will this splendid celebration take place?’ Joanne felt oddly put out that she had not heard this news from Patrick Nayland himself.
‘On the thirteenth of December. It was as near to Christmas as Patrick could get.’
‘Unlucky for some,’ she said automatically.
The phrase would echo many times in her mind in the months which followed.
Three
The balmy autumn weather lasted for another week. Alan Fitch and Barry Hooper laid their new turf and saw it begin to knit in with the surrounding grass. Michelle Nayland ate her way through a tense Sunday evening meal with her stepfather and her rather anxious mother without any serious incident. Chris Pearson helped Joanne Moss to mount a lunch for the over-sixties golfers of Camellia Park, which was an occasion of raucous but good-natured fun.
Then the weather changed abruptly. The temperature dropped steeply, the rains came in from the west, and an overnight gale battered the area, stripping the trees abruptly of the autumn glory which had been impressive for a month and more. By the time of the staff Christmas dinner at Soutters Restaurant on the thirteenth of December, winter had taken a sudden grip on the land. The turf on the fairways of the golf course was white with frost in the mornings, and the flags on the greens stood out stiffly in the strong north-east wind, which strengthened throughout the day.
Golfers are hardy and determined souls, but by the middle of this bitter afternoon, the last of them had admitted defeat and were hastening from the course. Camellia Park closed early, and the staff hastened away gratefully to don their finery for the evening’s festivities.
Soutters is a small and intimate place: its rooms date back to Elizabethan times and its softly lit restaurant has an atmosphere which makes every meal an occasion. It was exactly the right size for the sort of evening Patrick Nayland planned to give his staff, for its small size meant that he was able to take over the whole establishment for his party.
The bitter cold outside seemed only to add to the occasion. Everyone came in shivering, but within minutes was laughing with the rest of the company round the little bar where the preliminary drinks were served with the roaring log fire in the background. Paula Soutter served them herself and
took their orders for the starters and main courses they would enjoy as the evening progressed. Nothing was hasty or unconsidered at Soutters: the place was theirs for the whole evening, and the food and wine would be served and enjoyed in a properly relaxed and unhurried pageant of enjoyment.
Several hours later, when the bulk of the meal had been enjoyed, Fred Soutter would emerge from his kitchen in his tall chef’s hat, smiling and unflustered, his face shiny with pleasure in his work, shyly receiving the plaudits of the customers who now felt almost like guests, standing beside his poised and elegantly gowned wife to answer any questions about the food and the wines. There was a cost, of course, at the end of the evening; quality never comes cheap. But the charges were reasonable for what was given; Soutters’ clients paid for four hours of splendid fare in a unique setting, but they got good value for money. The Times had given the place a strong recommendation three years ago; its customers nodded sagely and kept rather quiet about such publicity, as if they resented outside opinions and wished to keep this tiny gem of civilized entertainment to themselves.
For all but the man who had devised the evening, the cost did not matter. And Patrick Nayland, circulating among the workers who had become his guests for the evening, gave the impression that cost was the last thing he was considering. He had a word for everyone, from the humblest to the most exalted of his little band, and he had a quality unusual in a boss: he listened to other people as well as to himself. Even the wives, husbands and partners who had never seen him before, who had come along diffidently to this evening which was designed primarily to reward their partners for loyal service, felt themselves a part of it as Patrick chatted to them about their lives, their families, and their concerns in the wider world outside Camellia Park.
Barry Hooper had not brought a partner for the evening. He had no girlfriend at the moment, he repeated patiently to a succession of enquiries. He was such a recent addition to the permanent staff of the golf course that he felt it an enormous privilege to be here himself, sitting in a restaurant which he would never have dared to enter, with a company glittering for the evening as he had never seen them before.
