An American Caddie in St. Andrews: Growing Up, Girls, and Looping on the Old Course

by Oliver Horovitz

  “Welcome back, ya spanker!”

  I’m not sure what “spanker” means, but I have a guess.

  FIFTY-NINE

  In June, the Old Course closes, for preparations for the 2010 British Open. Just like the last time the Open was here, in 2005, the month serves as a kind of forced vacation for the caddies. This time, I’m popping back over to the States for the wedding of two friends of mine from Harvard, Damien and Jasmine. The wedding’s in Martha’s Vineyard, which is kind of hard to pass up. I’ll stay in the States until British Open week, then fly back to St. Andrews in time for the tournament.

  As I leave, Uncle Ken is set for an operation that he’s been wanting to have for years, a heart-valve replacement. It’s being done at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh. Mom and Dad are flying over to Scotland as I leave, so they’ll be there to help him recover.

  * * *

  Damien and Jasmine’s wedding is unbelievably fun. It’s the first wedding of friends my own age, and it’s like a bar mitzvah with alcohol. I head back to New York after the wedding—suntanned, well fed, and Martha’s Vineyard happy—to see family. It’s there that I first hear that Uncle Ken isn’t doing that great.

  The operation seems to be a success. Uncle Ken comes out of it well. For the first few days, he improves steadily and is set to stay in the hospital for a week afterward. But then suddenly things take a turn. He picks up a hospital-dwelling infection that settles in his lungs. He remains weak. Suddenly Mom and Dad are out at the hospital every day, by his side. I get updates from them, check in constantly by phone from New York. It’s not great. Soon it’s really not great. Aunty Jacqui, my mom’s sister, comes up by train to Edinburgh, then postpones her return. I’m getting worried. But it’s Uncle Ken. I know he’ll get better. He’s survived much tougher things. Wars, and falls, and landings in lightning storms. This too will pass.

  • • •

  I’m in East Hampton with my sister Rachael and her family when I get the voice mail.

  “Please call, Ollie,” my dad is saying, his voice beginning to crack. “It’s . . . it’s not good news.”

  I dial Scotland, already knowing what will happen when the call connects. The call connects. Dad picks up.

  “It’s over, honey,” he says.

  That next second seems to last a century. The first thing that pops into my head, and the first thing that I say back is “It doesn’t feel real . . .”

  And then, on this street corner, in front of dozens of happy passing tourists and beachgoers, three thousand miles from Uncle Ken’s kitchen, I begin to cry. I don’t want to hang up the phone with Dad, because he’s in the hospital room next to Uncle Ken, and while I’m on the line, it’s the only physical connection I have left to my uncle.

  * * *

  I push up my flight to St. Andrews. I pack a dress shirt and black tie for the funeral. And before I go to bed, not knowing what else to do, I upload a picture of Uncle Ken to Facebook, with his funny smile, dressed in classic tie, sweater, and tweed coat, along with the caption “Uncle Ken, May 14th, 1921–July 8th, 2010. Will be greatly missed.”

  When I get up the next morning, what I see makes me cry again. All the caddies have left comments on the photo. “Rest in Peace Uncle Ken.” “Uncle Ken was a legend.” “Thinking of you, Ollie.” Most of the guys knew Uncle Ken personally. Some lived on his street. Some grew up visiting his house for doctor’s appointments, where his wife, Dr. Isobel Cochran, ran her practice. It’s beyond touching. And it helps.

  • • •

  It’s weird being back. The clocks in Uncle Ken’s house still chime. His pictures are still up. He never expected, when he packed a bag for the week and left for Edinburgh, that he’d never be back. That fourteen days from that afternoon, we’d be arranging his funeral. So it’s hard. And as the British Open rages on outside, I find myself still winding all the clocks for Uncle Ken, watering his plants, deadheading his roses, walking the rooms, looking at all the photographs. And I find other photographs in the house, hidden in cupboards and boxes. Uncle Ken as a twenty-five-year-old Royal Air Force pilot, with a mustache and short shorts, looking exactly like Alec Guinness in The Bridge on the River Kwai. Uncle Ken meeting the queen. Uncle Ken driving around royal dignitaries. But it’s the photo of Uncle Ken as a twenty-five-year-old that sticks with me. He’s so strong, so confident. So powerful. As if he’d never be an eighty-nine-year-old, obsessed with his garden and worrying endlessly about his great-nephew’s supper plans.

  * * *

  The funeral is held in tiny All Saints’ Church, just off the end of the Scores. It was Uncle Ken’s church, and he went every Sunday. The 2010 British Open ended yesterday, and the crowds have largely gone home. But there’s a big crowd at the funeral—gardening-club members, locals, retired RAF servicemen, former town councilors. And several rather high-up members of the Scottish parliament, here to acknowledge Uncle Ken’s years of service. There are family, friends. Dave, my flatmate from that first summer on Market Street, comes with his mother, Anne. A few of us share some thoughts on Uncle Ken. I wrote a speech last night, downstairs in the basement of Uncle Ken’s house, and I recite it today in front of the congregation. I talk about Uncle Ken’s giggle. I talk about Bonnie, his old dog. I talk about the Grill House dinners, and the garden chores, and the puttering about the house humming. I tell it all. And as I say the lines I wrote, I feel close to my dear friend again.

  • • •

  Everyone stops me on the street to offer their condolences. A funny fifty-year-old caddie named Scott Kennedy, who often loops while wearing an ascot, tells me that he’s lived at 7 Hope Street, across from Uncle Ken, since 1970. “I always used to call your uncle Squadron Leader!” Scott tells me. At a garden party for the residents of Hope Street and Howard Place, the organizers make an opening address to the whole crowd, saying, “We lost a great man recently. Ken Hayward.”

  And I’m checking e-mail in Beanscene, the coffee shop on Bell Street, when I run into the manager of the Grill House. He’s a tall skinny guy in his early thirties. Immediately, he looks like he might cry. “I was so upset to see the news in the paper,” he says. “I’d just seen Ken walking in the street a few weeks ago!” This is a standard occurrence for me. People are shocked to hear that he passed away—they didn’t know about the operation, they can’t believe how quickly it happened.

  I tell the man how much Uncle Ken loved the Grill House; I tell him how many “loyalty cards” we went through, with Uncle Ken always losing them just before the sixth punch and the free meal. The guy tells me how much the staff in the Grill House loved Ken—how he seemed so at home in the restaurant, with his walker and tweed coat and hat, and his giggle. I thank him, tell him I’ll come into the Grill House soon. And then I leave.

  * * *

  That night, I have dinner with Uncle Ken’s old neighbors Jake and Edith at their house on the Scores. It is hilarious—they force wine on me, whiskey, gin and tonics; they easily outdrink me as eighty-year-olds. Edith says to me, “Ken would always worry about you. He’d say to me, ‘Oliver is so forgetful all the time! I worry where he’s putting his caddie money! He’s making so much of it, you know.’” Edith smiles at me. “He was always thinking about you, Ollie. He loved hearing about your studies, your caddying, your golf exploits. He loved you so much, Ollie. You were the son he never had.”

  SIXTY

  “Thanks for coming down here, Oliver.”

  Henry is sitting in his easy chair, surrounded by his plants.

  “Oh, it’s great to see you, Henry!” I reply.

  I’ve come down to the end of Tom Morris Drive, to visit Henry at his house. It’s very hard for Henry to get outside these days. Because he’s not doing so well. Mentally, Henry’s the same as ever, but physically, his tree-trunk-tall body is starting to betray him. His legs have somehow lost circulation, and they’re very swollen. Bandages cover the lower parts of both legs. Louise, Henry’s daughter, has to change the dressings twice a day. It
seems as if Henry is in a lot of pain. Even so, he is dressed, as usual, in tweed jacket, tweed cap, dress shirt, and tie. Gentle, English, and old-school. And he looks eager to see me. My dapper mate points over to his dresser with importance.

  “That’s the program from Ken’s funeral. Louise brought it back for me. She said it was a lovely service.”

  Henry wasn’t allowed by the doctor to come to Uncle Ken’s funeral. He shakes his head sadly.

  “Do you know, I’ll never forgive myself for not being there,” he says.

  “You were there in spirit, Henry,” I say, trying to cheer him up. Henry nods, like a boy who’s just been told why he can’t have a second ice-cream cone.

  “Aye. I was. But still, I wish I had been there . . . to give him a good send-off.”

  I think about what it must be like to lose your best mate of sixty years. And how hard it must be for Henry, a man made for the outdoors, to be now forced inside by his own insides. But if he’s to be trapped anywhere, this is as good as it gets. Because Henry’s house, which he shares with his wife, Grace, and their daughter, Louise, is a fitting place for a lifelong gardener. Everywhere I look, there are flowers.

  “Those are tulips over there, Oliver.” Henry, perhaps to lighten the mood, has transitioned into a flower tour of the house. “And over there, those are primulas, and African violets past them.” It’s amazing. In this living room alone, there are orchids and azaleas, great green umbrella plants and red-leaved poinsettias. There are peach-colored geraniums on the tables and yellow begonias along the carpets. Outside in the back garden, I see even brighter explosions of color—purple hydrangeas and sunny yellow forsythias. Deep pink cyclamen and dainty white fuchsias. Daisies and pansies. Pink viburnums and purple climbing clematis, evergreen hebes, creamy violas, and a sea of geraniums, crocuses, and snowdrops, all dancing in the wind outside the window. Flowers that Uncle Ken and Henry have pointed out to me year after year. An ocean of flowers.

  “These are lovely, Henry!” I say.

  “Aye, they’ve done well this year,” Henry says, peering around contentedly at his brood. He looks proud. His flowers. His plot. A comfort for an old gardener who’s just lost his oldest friend.

  • • •

  The call arrives a few weeks later. It’s from Louise, Henry’s daughter, and it’s in the middle of the night.

  “Oliver, this is Louise here. I’m sorry to bother you, but I thought you should know. Henry had a fall tonight and hit his head on the staircase. He hit his head very hard. They rushed him to the hospital, but . . .” There’s a long pause. “But he passed away there.”

  I’m silent. I’m in shock. Two best friends, in the space of a month, going down together. It’s just too much.

  “Oh, Louise, I’m . . . I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “We’re all very upset,” she says. “But, you know, he’s with Ken now.”

  I instantly think of Henry, waiting at the bus stop on Market Street, all those afternoons before he’d visit Uncle Ken. I used to think that Henry was just stopping for a chat, but eventually I realized the truth. Henry just didn’t want to arrive before his one P.M. arranged time. He would purposefully kill time so that he’d arrive precisely on the hour. “I’m sure he is, Louise,” I say. And I think of Henry and Uncle Ken now having tea together in heaven, sharing their heavenly gen.

  • • •

  I’m staying in Uncle Ken’s house. August has come and gone, but I’m still here. There’s nothing particularly important back in America that I have to return for. And just staying here, for now, feels good. Feels right. It’s just me now in Uncle Ken’s house, winding his clocks and watering his plants and thinking about him all the time.

  September marches on, and the air grows colder. The nights are drawing in. High season on the Old Course has gone. A quietness settles over St. Andrews during these times in September. The R & A has taken over the Old Course for its two-week autumn meeting, reclaiming the land for its members—a sea of tweed caps and heavy accents. The members assemble from all over the world, descending back on the town to compete, eat sumptuous meals, and wear their red trousers. At the tail end of the autumn meeting is the R & A Captain’s Drive, a centuries-old tradition, in which the incoming captain of the Royal and Ancient strikes a tee shot down the first fairway—literally driving himself into office—and all the caddies scramble to get the ball (the caddie who succeeds in catching the ball returns it to the captain, who presents him with a gold sovereign, worth roughly three hundred pounds). For these weeks, the American tourists disappear. The students aren’t yet back. The Dunhill Links Championship is still two weeks away. For now the town is local, peaceful. People walk around North Street at a slower pace. Easing into the fall.

  * * *

  Ring ring ringgggg . . .

  I force open my eyes and lock in on my bedside clock. I groan. It’s 6:55 in the morning. And the house phone is on its twentieth ring.

  Upstairs, at the top of Uncle Ken’s house, I pull a second pillow over my ears. Whoever’s calling, they’re going to have to wait. The rings finally stop, but I can’t fall back to sleep. Finally, I give up. I groan again (dramatically, for the benefit of absolutely no one, since I’m alone in the house) and make my way downstairs, for the phone receiver. I check the voice mail.

  “Hellooo . . . this is Hamish Matheson calling . . .”

  I know Hamish. Hamish is an eighty-five-year-old Scottish über-stalwart member of the Gardeners’ Club. He’s been a member for years with Uncle Ken and Henry. And Hamish’s priorities, it’s safe to say, are 100 percent Gardeners’ Club. If a large asteroid were heading for earth, Hamish’s first thought would likely involve where to hide the petunias.

  I have a feeling I know why Hamish is calling, and I think it’s because he stored some pots and bowls in Uncle Ken’s cellar at the beginning of the summer, two months before Uncle Ken passed away, for the fall St. Andrews flower show. In this message, however, it’s as if Hamish is sending out SOS distress calls during World War II.

  “This is Hamish. Urgent call. Repeat. Urgent. I need to pick up the cups and bowls at Ken’s house . . .”

  I roll my eyes. The flower show is still two weeks away. This is like a sitcom.

  “. . . please would you ring me back at . . .” Long pause. “Oh dear, I’ve forgotten my number. Apologies. I will ring back later. Urgent.”

  I just want to go back up to bed, but poor Hamish sounded so worried. And I like the fact that he signed off his voice mail with one final use of the word “urgent.” This is classic Gardeners’ Club behavior. All of the members (all in their mid-eighties) plan their lives around the Gardeners’ Club shows. The Gardeners’ Club is their world. Nothing else really matters. Even with the deaths of my uncle and Henry, two presidents who have fallen, the show must still go on. I guess I should do my bit.

  I find Hamish’s number in Uncle Ken’s red leather-bound address book and dial him back.

  “Hellooo?”

  “Hi, Hamish, this is Oliver, Ken Hayward’s nephew.”

  There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other line. “Thank God I got you on the phone,” Hamish says in his slow, old-world Scottish accent. “You’re going away soon. We’ve got to get the pots back. D-Day is approaching!”

  I digest this information as I stand in the upstairs living room in my flannel boxers.

  “Umm . . . I could do it this evening at six, when I’ve finished caddying . . .”

  This is the answer that Hamish hoped to hear. He sounds enthusiastic. “Yes! That would be excellent. Do you have a mobile? I’ll give you mine. Mine is . . .” Another long pause. “Damn . . . I’ve forgotten that as well . . .”

  • • •

  Eventually I finalize plans to meet Hamish at six o’clock—plus some other Gardeners’ Club members who will be “aiding” with “transport”—and then head back upstairs for another sleep attempt. I caddie later in the morning and finish my round at three thirty P.M. I’m about t
o head home for Hamish when Rob calls me back to the window. There are VIP jobs—four CEOs of French businesses playing the Jubilee at 3:40—and Rob needs me to go with them. My cell phone is out of battery, and I realize that I have no way to alert Hamish to this change. I go out on my second round, distressed about stranding poor Hamish. I ask my golfer to borrow his phone, but he tells me, “Desolée, I never bring mine on the golf course.” I finish the round, fairly certain that this mess-up will not be taken completely in stride.

  Sure enough, when I return home at eight thirty P.M., I find a small note taped to the door.

  Hamish Matheson Called in at 6:01 p.m.

  Departed at 7:58 p.m.

  Young Oliver Nowhere to be found.

  Emergency.

  Hamish.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Uncle Ken’s house is being packed up.

  It’s being left to the Scottish National Trust, as dictated in Uncle Ken’s will. It’s what he and his wife Isobel wanted. My aunty Jacqui and aunty Christine have been up from England to start sorting through the house’s contents—deciding what’s to be kept and what’s to be sold. It’s hard to see the house bundled into boxes. As if I’m witnessing the dismantlement of my connection to St. Andrews.

  * * *

  Down at the course, at least, I have a distraction.

  The Alfred Dunhill Links Championship has arrived. It’s a European Tour event, held on three different courses—Kingsbarns, Carnoustie, and the Old Course (the “Compilation Course” is set up for visiting tourists during Dunhill Week, consisting of the New and Jubilee Courses). The Dunhill is part individual tournament, part pro-am, with celebrities playing alongside pros—the European equivalent of the AT&T Pebble Beach pro-am. Samuel L. Jackson plays in the Dunhill. So does Hugh Grant. And Michael Douglas. And Bill Murray . . .