Loss of Stroke and Distance
It being an exceedingly ill wind that blows no one any good, the bar of the Berebury Golf Club was doing a brisk trade. Golfers deprived of a game had only three places to turn. Since two of these were the practice hole and the putting green, the other â the bar â was busy.
âTwo halves, please, Molly,' said Brian Southon to the woman behind the bar, âand have something for yourself.'
Molly, a calm, statuesque woman built on generous lines, acknowledged this with a quick smile of thanks, and busied herself at a beer engine, at the same time as skilfully catching the eye of the next person waiting for her attention.
âWhat are you doing here on a weekday morning, Brian?' a man nearby asked. âI thought you worked for a living.'
âClient meeting.' Brian Southon, a short, stocky man, grinned and pointed to his neighbour. âGot to talk turkey with my friend Gilchrist here.'
âAs long as the boss doesn't catch you out and about, that's all.'
âI'm told my revered employer's out on the course just now,' said Southon, quite relaxed. âAnd he won't mind because I'm doing really great business for Calleshire Consolidated. That's right, Peter, isn't it?'
âIt sure is,' said Peter Gilchrist warmly.
âThere you are then,' said Southon, looking round and smiling. âEveryone's pleased. That's what I like.'
âIt's what they will persist in calling a “win-win” situation, I suppose,' said a man called Moffat sourly. He was a retired schoolteacher and English had been his specialist subject.
âExactly,' said Brian Southon, âand that's what every salesman likes.'
âMind you, Brian,' Gilchrist said, âI shall have to go back to
the office and do my sums before I sign anything.'
âEven his card?' called out some wag.
âI might start to worry if he got too many birdies,' admitted Gilchrist, looking wryly at Southon. âBut I don't think he will, somehow. After all, he's not that good a player.'
âWho wouldn't worry about too many birdies?' said Gerald Moffat, who had been made preternaturally suspicious by a lifetime in the teaching profession. âEspecially with the greens as they are just now.'
âWhat's wrong with the greenkeeper then, that he can't keep up with the grass cutting?' asked someone else. âIt's not as if we've had that much rain.'
âTummy bug was what his wife said to the Secretary,' he was informed.
âThat's a gastrointestinal upset to you, Moffat, I suppose,' joked Southon. âGot to keep the English standard up, haven't we?'
Moffat muttered something inaudible into his drink.
âAt least the greens are all right now,' said Southon, taking a sip of his beer. âPeter here and I gave Alan Pursglove a hand with cutting some of them a couple of evenings ago, didn't we Peter.'
âWe did,' agreed Peter Gilchrist, the plumpish man thus addressed. âHard work it was, too, getting them just right.'
âSo that no one could say that you let the grass grow under your feet, I suppose,' said Moffat uncharitably.
âBrian certainly doesn't do that,' said the man called Luke Trumper. He put his hand on Southon's shoulder. âNever let it be said that our Brian doesn't do his bit for the Club.'
âI shouldn't be at all surprised,' went on Moffat sarcastically, âif he hasn't got a “to-do” list as well. Nobody'll leave the English language alone these days.'
âHey, it isn't all me, fellows,' protested Southon. âSomeone else on the Greens' Committee was going to tackle the others
yesterday evening.'
âUnited Mellemetics won't like you two doing a deal,' said a man standing beside the Gilchrist and Southon at the bar. He pointed towards a player sitting on a seat in the window.
âNigel Halesworth never likes anyone doing a deal with anyone else,' said Brian Southon, nevertheless turning and giving Halesworth a long, careful look.
âHe's certainly not going to like so much of our business coming your way,' said Gilchrist. âI hope you've thought that through, Brian.'
âOh, yes,' said Southon easily.
âUnited Mellemetics has been one of your suppliers for a long time, Peter, hasn't he?' asked a player who was propping up the far end of the bar. He pushed his glass back over the counter. âThe usual, Molly, please.'
âMan and boy,' said Gilchrist, âbut you could say that Nigel Halesworth and his precious United Mellemetics aren't being as accommodating as Douglas Garwood and Calleshire Consolidated.'
There was a little pause since everyone knew â but nobody mentioned â that Gilchrist's firm was under pressure these days.
âAnd Halesworth won't like it either,' continued the same man, âif anything comes between him and the new driving range that his technical people have done the feasibility study for.'
âBut they only did the feasibility study,' someone else on the Committee reminded them.
âAnd the mammal study,' growled Moffat richly. âMustn't forget the mammals, must we?'
âOr the archaeologists,' said another voice. âThey've done their geophysical survey, too.'
âIt's a wonder they don't want to know about ancient lights,' said Moffat.
âUnited Mellemetics hasn't got the contract yet, though. Nobody has. It's still out to tender and there's plenty of members' firms who'll want to bid for the work.'
âAnd for the land,' said a retired banker. âIt's the land that matters, you know. Development value and all that.'
âI still say it should have gone out to open tender,' said someone else. âNot just restricted to members.'
âI don't see why it shouldn't be kept in-house,' said another man obstinately. âThere's no law against it.'
âYet,' said the banker.
âAnd I still say that it's a waste of good ground,' declared Moffat with unnecessary firmness. âAll that a driving range will do is encourage the rabble.'
An uneasy silence descended on the group round the bar. Gerald Moffat was not a man to cross swords with lightly and the question of the driving range was a tricky one at the Club.
âYou must be getting a good deal from Doug's outfit, all the same, Peter,' observed the first man after a moment, tactfully reverting to the earlier conversation, âthings being how they are,' he added gnomically.
Brian Southon laughed aloud at this oblique reference to Peter Gilchrist's troubles. âBelieve me, he is. Peter is doing Calleshire Consolidated proud.'
âJust make sure you don't get drawn against Halesworth in the next knockout, that's all,' advised his neighbour. âEither of you. Or he'll be taking his revenge.'
âThat's a risk I'll have to take,' said Gilchrist sombrely.
âMe, too/ said Southon cheerfully. âBut I shan't worry too much. Business is business, you know.'
âTrue,' said Gilchrist, pushing his glass back across the bar counter. âSame again, Molly, please. For both of us.'
Â
There was a payphone in the lobby of the Golf Club. Sloan fished in his pocket for some loose change and punched in his
own home number.
âThat you, Margaret?' he said. âChris here. Listen, love, I'm going to be a bit late home.'
He heard a deep sigh.
âSomething's come up,' he hurried on. This was absolutely true and what had come up would soon be on its way to the mortuary, which was where he would have to go soon, too.
There was no audible response to this at the other end of the line.
âWork-wise,' he stumbled on.
In the long pause that followed this last Sloan's mind drifted back to when they'd done Shakespeare's play
Coriolanus
at school. Now that was a play for boys if ever there was one: fighting, treachery and war, war, war.
All magnificent masculine stuff, making the schoolroom echo with the imagined sounds of battle, conjured up by heady words. Even so, their teacher had seen fit to draw their attention to the soldier Coriolanus's description of his wife. Sloan had never forgotten it: that great general had called her “my gracious silence”.
Â
The class of teenagers had nodded then with what they thought was world-weary sophistication in approval of quiet, undemanding wives. Now, years later, an adult Christopher Dennis Sloan wasn't at all sure that wifely silence was always gracious.
Not this silence, anyway.
He hastened into further speech. âI'm ringing from the Golf Club,' he said.
That did the trick.
âWhere did you say?' asked Margaret Sloan upon the instant.
âI'm at the Golf Club,' he said, adding, with perfect â but not the whole â truth, âWith the Superintendent. Can't say
anything more. Not now. Tell you later.'
The finding of the body would be common knowledge in the town by evening.
âYour mother will be pleased,' she said obliquely.
He doubted it. His mother's life revolved round St Ninian's Church in Berebury. She never missed her weekly Bible Study meeting â or failed to expand on it at Sunday lunchtime. At length.
âYou won't beat the Super, Chris, will you?' said Margaret Sloan anxiously. âNot the first time you play.'
âI promise,' he said â and meant it.
âExcept,' she added astringently, âover the head with a club if he makes you late tonight.'
Parthian shots, he should have remembered, had come up in a later lesson.
Â
The girl whom Edmund Pemberton had addressed as Hilary advanced further into the caddies' hut. âHullo, Edmund,' she repeated. She looked round at the other men and said âAnd hullo everyone else.'
There was a general shuffling of feet but very few answering “hulloâs” until Bert Hedges eventually said âMorning, miss. And what can we do for you?'
âLet me do some caddying,' replied the girl briskly. âI'm Hilary Trumper, by the way.'
âCan't stop you,' said Dickie Castle, adding meaningfully, âeven if we wanted to.'
âWould you happen to be Mr Trumper's daughter, miss?' asked Bert Hedges.
âWhat if I am?' she said truculently.
âNothing, miss. Sorry I spoke, I'm sure,' said Bert Hedges without any noticeable sign of regret.
âHow does the system work?' she asked. âFirst come, first served?'
âNot quite,' said Castle reluctantly.
âHow, then?'
âA regular player books us for a match,' said Castle.
âOr sometimes just for a game,' put in Shipley.
âAll right, I'll buy it,' said the girl. âWhat's the difference?'
âA match is played for serious â¦' Dickie began to explain.
âA game is presumably something played purely for pleasure,' interrupted Edmund Pemberton. âSurely that's the correct definition of a game?'
Everyone present ignored him.
âSo therefore a caddy can be booked for either?' concluded Hilary swiftly.
âOr both, surely,' said Edmund Pemberton.
âOh, don't be such a pedant, Edmund,' said Hilary, turning back to Dickie Castle. âWhat happens if a particular caddy hasn't been booked? Do you work on the cab rank principle? Like barristers have to take their dock briefs?'
âShe does mean “first come, first served”,' explained Edmund unnecessarily.
Hilary shot him a withering glance. âThey know what I mean.
âYes, miss,' said Bert Castle hastily. âThe player just knocks on the door and calls out “Caddy wanted”.'
âWhen it's warm we sit outside on the bench in the sun,' said Fred Shipley, who must have caught something of Edmund Pemberton's precision.
âShips' pilots work on the same principle,' Pemberton informed them gratuitously. âTaking what comes next.'
âWe don't need to know that, Edmund,' said Hilary dismissively. âWhat I need to know is how exactly do I get to start caddying here?'
Bert Hedges, visibly fascinated by the girl's bare midriff, began to say something about in her case sitting on the bench and showing her ankles as well as her tummy would probably
do the trick but thought better of it and subsided into silence.
âYou wait your turn like everyone else, miss,' said someone else.