by Brian Alford
Bill sat down on the bench next to the contemplating man. “What’s up Henry? Club run out of booze?”
“There’s more to life than booze you know.” Henry growled.
“Well, I never thought I’d hear you say that. You must be ill. Haven’t caught anything have you?”
Henry started anxiously. “I bloody hope not! Anyway its none of your damned business.”
Bill was taken aback by the harsh reaction. “Alright. I only asked. What’s none of my damned business?”
Henry shook his head sadly. “That bloody coach driver, he’s well, he’s a thing.”
“A thing?”
“Yes, part man part woman or something. Never heard such a thing. Having an operation done, breasts and all. Bet he’s got all sorts of nasty things. Still I thought there was something funny as soon as I saw that ear ring and that hair.”
Bill was beginning to see the funny side of Henrys’ mood. “I think he was having you on Henry. He’s the son of the owner of the coach company and he’s married with a young child. I met him in the bar earlier on.”
“In the bar?”
“Yes, he was just snatching a quick pint.”
Henry blustered but was lost for words. Bill became alarmed at the red flush on Henry’s face. “Something wrong?”
“That little ponce tricked me out of my bottle of Scotch.”
“He did what? Well, this is a red letter day. I thought I felt the earth move out there on the course. What do you say Vic? Did you feel the earth tremble out there?”
Vic was more relieved than amused, relieved that Henry was placid and behaving. “Never mind Henry. There’s plenty more where that one came from. Or do I mean where that one went? Bill and I will get shot of our gear and we’ll stand you a drink.”
Henry was a man of wildly swinging moods and it took very little to trigger a swing. The offer of a free drink was more than enough to set the pendulum moving back from depression to elation, and the next couple of hours were spent in the congenial surroundings of the bar and even more congenial company of whisky.
It was part of the tradition of matches between the two clubs that an after match supper was served. Following the unpleasantness of the afternoon session relations between the players of the two clubs were not good and the dinner passed in sombre mood. At least most of the diners were sombre, a few were even their boisterous selves. Henry was particularly jubilant. He had no knowledge of what had transpired during the afternoon matches to dampen his spirits but more importantly he was overjoyed to learn that he had not caught anything nasty after all.
Though it was also customary for socialising after the supper, the events of the day had effectively removed all thoughts of such niceties. With the exception of Henry the entire Barndem party could not wait to get back home and once supper was finished they quickly collected their equipment and made ready to leave.
In the car park the coach sat silent and waiting. Vic, Bill and Bob were the first to approach the vehicle, primarily out of an anxiety to prevent any unpleasantness between the coach driver and Henry. The idea had been to have a quick word with the driver first but Henry was only a few steps behind them. As they climbed on board the darkened coach the driver was nowhere to be seen. The four men stood and listened, somewhere in the darkness they heard the sound of heavy breathing. Vic walked to the back of the coach where Justin lay sound asleep across the back seat. On the floor lay an empty bottle of Scotch.
Vic turned to glare at Henry. “Your bottle I presume?”
Henry pursed his bottom lip and pulled a stupid face. “I didn’t force him to drink it.”
Vic prodded Justin and shook his head in disgust at the sight of the prostrate driver. “He’s in no fit state to drive.”
“So who is going to drive? We can’t stay here all night.”
Vic thoughtfully stroked his chin, “It will have to be one of us. It needs to be someone who has a licence and who hasn’t been drinking.”
From behind a quiet familiar voice was heard. “I can do it.” It was Bob who had been standing some distance away viewing events with great concern.
Vic turned to locate the voice. “Bob? What do you mean?”
“I can drive the coach.”
“Are you qualified?”
“U-huh. Got a special licence during National Service.”
“That was an awful long time ago Bob.”
“Yes, but its like falling off a bike, you never forget how.”
Vic frowned doubtfully. “A poor choice of analogy but I take the point. What about drink? Haven’t you been drinking?”
“No. I’m on these pills for, well I’d rather not go into that if you don’t mind. Anyway I’ve only had one drink all day and that was much earlier.”
“So what were you drinking at the club?”
“Alcohol free whisky and dry ginger.”
“Alcohol free whisky?”
“Well, not exactly. Whisky and dry ginger without the whisky.”
Vic shook his head in a vain attempt to clear the unintelligible nonsense. “OK, well it seems we have no other choice. If you think you can do it then I suppose we must let you try.”
There was a noticeable lack of enthusiasm on Bob’s face. In truth he had not really expected to be taken seriously. He had spoken up out of compulsion rather than intent.
“Well, I’m…er not sure. I mean …”
But the die was cast and Bob was shuffled to the front of the coach and into the drivers seat. As the others settled in their seats Bob sat alone and isolated looking slowly around the instruments and controls in front of him. Something was wrong put he could not quite put his finger on it. From a seat three rows behind Vic called out. “What’s the matter? Come on, start the engine and let’s get going.”
Bob leant over to the ignition but there were no keys. “Where are the keys?”
Vic stood up. “Keys? I don’t know.” He looked to the back of the coach. “The driver must have them. Hang on I’ll get them.” Moving to the back of the coach Vic began to rummage through Justin’s pockets.
Though still unconscious, Justin wriggled and turned and muttered to himself. “Stupid fat old drunkard.” This obvious reference to Henry amused Vic and as he made his way to the front of the coach he nodded in the direction of Justin and whispered to Henry. “He’s calling for you.”
Henry blustered and folded his arms in disgust. “If you think I’m going anywhere near that little ponce.”
After some uncertainty Bob managed to coax the coach into life and as he fiddled with the unfamiliar controls the vehicle jumped forward and then stopped just as suddenly. As the coach stuttered out of the car park veering violently from side to side, it was clear that Bob had not learnt to drive on a vehicle fitted with automatic gears and power assisted steering and brakes. But fortunately the hour was late and the roads clear and slowly Bob became used to the responsive controls.
Part of their journey took them along a short stretch of motorway. As they approached the roundabout it was so dark no one noticed that Bob had turned right and was driving the wrong way round the roundabout. He took the first right turn and the coach slowly descended down the slip road onto the motorway. Peering out of the window into the darkness Vic could tell from the direction of the lights of passing cars something was terribly wrong. Leaping from his seat in panic, he raced to the front of the coach. “Bob, you’re on the wrong side of the motorway!”
Bob looked baffled and brought the coach to a sudden halt. “Am I? Its very confusing isn’t it?”
A car passed by the coach with its headlights on and horn sounding angrily. A stunned silence fell over the passengers and standing next to Bob, Vic breathed slowly and deeply trying to collect his thoughts. “Tell me something. Where exactly did you learn to drive?”
“During my National Service.”
“Yes, you’ve already told us that. But where did you do your National Service?”
“Germany.”
“Um, yes I think they do.”
“So when did you last drive a coach? No, let me guess. During your National Service right?”
“U-huh.”
“In Germany.”
“U-huh.”
“Wonderful. OK let’s go back to basics. This is England and in England we drive on the left. And just in case you’re still confused left is that carriageway over there.”
Bob looked long and hard at the opposite carriageway and the steady flow of traffic. There was definitely something not quite right.
“I thought it was funny when I sat down, the drivers seat being on this side. But I thought perhaps this was one of those continental coaches. You know, for driving on the other side of the road.”
Bob had adopted his little boy lost look and sat staring out of the enormous front windscreen of the coach. “So what shall I do?”
By now Bill had joined them and was looking to the back of the coach and out of the rear window. “Reverse up the slip road.”
Vic was horrified. “Reverse, are you mad?”
“No, it looks clear. He’ll be going in the right direction. He may be facing the wrong way but as far as I know there’s no law that says you have to be facing the direction in which you are going.”
Bob nodded thoughtfully. “He’s right. After all some cars have the engine in their boot.”
Vic was still horrified but the pained expression on his face had mellowed. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“I don’t know. I just thought I’d try and help.”
Bill slapped Bob heartily on the shoulder. “Well help by reversing before the police spot us.”
Slowly the coach reversed back up the slip road and onto the roundabout. As it lurched to a halt an enthusiastic round of applause started spontaneously. A further slow reversal saw the coach back into a side road and re-enter the roundabout in the right direction. With Vic steadfastly at his side watching his every move, Bob re-commenced the journey home.
And so in the early hours of the morning the coach returned safely to Barndem in the doubtful hands of Bob and Vic. Once everyone had disembarked there remained the question of what to do about the still sleeping driver. There was little point waking him since he would undoubtedly still have been too drunk to drive. It seemed the only option was to leave Justin to sleep off his excesses on the back seat of the coach.
The coach had gone the following day when Vic and Bill arrived. To this day no-one knows the outcome since it was felt advisable caution to use a different coach hire company for future trips. One thing was sure, no pony-tailed, ear-ringed young man was ever sent to Barndem to drive and Henry never again drank from the same bottle as anyone else.
Dwights End
July the fourth is the day on which every red-blooded American celebrates the birth of his or her nation. Well, birth is not strictly true, the United States was actually born on the day the Civil War was finally over and the continent was united under one flag. July the fourth is actually Independence Day and a celebration of the fact that several centuries ago, upstart colonials kicked out the British because they did not like paying a fair price for a cup of tea.
That at least is what is taught in schools on the rebellious side of the Atlantic pond. The real truth is that the fledgling Americans were assisted by the conniving and two-faced French Canadians without whose traitorous intervention the war would have been lost. But that is another story.
Given the distinctly anti-British nature of the fourth of July it comes as something of a surprise to see a celebration ceremony performed on the very British greenery of Barndem golf course. And yet each year on that forgettable day a small group of Americans assemble round the sixteenth tee at Barndem to celebrate. How could this be? The answer is a simple but tragic story which goes back to another war. Only this time the Americans were allies of the British and the French were licking their wounds.
Over paid, over fed, over sexed and over here was the cry when the Americans invaded Britain during World War II. To that could be added: and all over Barndem golf course. Since the Americans were invited by the British, invade is perhaps an emotive and unjust term. But to many the brash and intrusive presence of the American troops was overwhelming. It was tolerated however in the knowledge that it was only short term and the overbearing invaders would soon be laying their lives on the line.
Dwight Ankermann was a golf fanatic. His wartime posting to England as Colonel commanding the third company of airborne marines was a cause of considerable personal distress. It meant that his coveted daily round of golf on his beloved South Carolina course had to be given up and that was a lot to ask of such a dedicated man. Still, Uncle Sam had said go and go he did. It was not his war, but it was his duty.
Good fortune smiles on the righteous and Colonel Dwight found himself stationed at an RAF base very close to Barndem. Despite several polite but clumsy overtures towards what remained at Barndem of a committee depleted by the war, Dwight was refused permission to tread the turf of the hallowed course. It was not that he was American and therefore from a rebellious ex-colony, it was just that he did not have the right connections. Pedigree was important at Barndem but connections were paramount.
However, Dwight was a persistent and undeniably resourceful man. During the long months that his troops were camped near Barndem boredom had set in and the men were beginning to become a little too wayward for Dwights liking. Being friendly to the natives was fine but fraternisation and other more intimate activities were not acceptable. Dwight was a deeply religious man and had definite views on such things. If Bromide in their coffee was not sufficient then something else had to be done to occupy the misplaced energies of his men.
So it was that Dwight volunteered the services of the men to the upkeep of the course at Barndem. A deft pulling of strings had saved Barndem from being turned into farmland for the dig for victory campaign. An ex-RAF officer and Barndem stalwart managed to get some of the fairways nominated as emergency runways for the RAF station which meant that the turf remained. But with so many member involved with the war effort, petrol in short supply and tools requisitioned for melting down to make arms and weapons, the course was degenerating due to lack of maintenance.
Dwight’s unlimited access to the course was a small price to pay for such a magnanimous gesture. Inspecting the efforts of his men gave the Colonel a tailor-made excuse to walk the course, and what better way to inspect the work than actually to play?
For a while this symbiotic relationship worked well and within a short space of time Barndem had become the place for local American servicemen to play. Dwight was connected and therefore anyone connected with Dwight had the necessary pre-requisite to play. Though the fears of the remaining members of Barndem grew there seemed little option but to stand by and wait for the end of the war when the club would return to their hands once more.
Concerns for the shattered sanctuary of their club were raised to the highest limit when Dwight proposed a challenge match between a team of American servicemen and Barndem to celebrate Independence Day. Dwight’s motives may have been well intended but the suggestion was hardly the most diplomatic he could have made to the highly sensitive, staunchly British members of Barndem. They did not share his unbridled enthusiasm for the fourth of July. It was bad enough that they had to endure the presence of these noisy invaders but to celebrate an infamous British defeat on their own soil was rubbing salt into an ancient wound. However, showing the sort of tact and diplomacy most Americans could hardly imagine and certainly never comprehend the members of Barndem agreed to the challenge.
Immediately the challenge was accepted Barndem was faced with a problem, how to assemble a team strong enough to put up a good showing. Winning was important but not vital and certainly not worth lowering their standards to compete on terms with their aggressive and ungentlemanly opponents. What mattered was that they retained their dignity and wer
e not beaten ignominiously. A hastily convened meeting of the depleted committee was called at which it became apparent that team selection was an impossible task. So many members were absent and handicaps had not been reviewed for several years.
A temporary captain and club secretary were appointed and a short list of possible players compiled. Handicaps were adjusted with judicious but liberal licence, generous but not blatantly so. It was known that to the Americans a handicap was a matter of ego. To them a low handicap was a sign of masculinity and prowess. In practice the struggle to live up to the egotistic status set by their handicaps made them look ridiculous. But this obviously worked in Barndem’s favour.
To add an air of formality and discipline to the occasion, local boys and sons of members too young to be serving in the forces were drafted in to act as caddies. Among them was a doubtful twelve year old called Henry Munroe. His family had a long and respected association with Barndem but the latest in the long line promised to break that tradition. Time would tell. Then there was an outwardly simple but willing lad called Bob Andrews and an extrovert called Bill Webster who despite his young age, many suspected as having dealings in the black market.
With twenty players in each team, ten matches were compiled, pairs being considered more sociable than singles. There was also the unspoken belief in golf circles that playing with a partner was better than playing solo; there was always someone else to blame. The last match was between Dwight and one of his Majors for the Americans and the acting Captain and Club Secretary for Barndem. Henry, Bob and Bill were acting as caddies for this match and in eager anticipation of a handsome tip for their efforts. History does not relate who the fourth boy was as he disappeared under mysterious circumstances to be detained at His Majesty’s pleasure. Barndem has a way of forgetting shameful incidents and their shameful perpetrators..
Despite the awkwardness of the occasion and the deep suspicion on the part of the Americans that the Barndem handicaps were a little generous, the match proceeded amiably. A dispute over whether the English or American ball was to be used was settled by Barndem allowing personal choice to prevail. For their part the Americans agreed to reduce the number of clubs in their bags from 14 to 10 out of concern for the poor boys who had to carry them.
