Captain's Day (12 page)

There is no other man in the whole wide world who is as optimistic as a golfer standing on the first tee. As he is about to set forth on another round of golf he knows for sure that he is going to play well. It doesn’t matter that the last time he took to the greensward he played like a drain, nor the time before he would have been hard-pressed to hit a cow’s behind with a banjo, never mind a distant green with a three iron; a man fancying his chances of getting hand relief in a dodgy massage parlour could not be more hopeful of success than a golfer stood on the first tee.

There are seldom grounds for such optimism. But then why should there be? For there can be no earthly reason for it. Why should a swing which has consistently got its owner into more trouble than the Americans got themselves into in Vietnam suddenly start working properly? Why should a swing that in the past has always contrived to dispatch a golf ball in any direction but the correct one, and about half the intended distance, suddenly transform itself into something that could propel a golf ball forward, arrow straight, and the correct distance? Why should the player’s skill with a sand wedge suddenly improve when every time he had previously called upon the services of that club to get him out of trouble it had succeeded only in getting him into even more trouble by removing from the bunker enough sand to build a dozen moderately-sized sandcastles, whilst at the same time contriving to leave the ball in the bunker, and in a much worse lie? And why should a putting stroke that for the last twenty years had managed to ensure that the ball consistently missed the hole with unerring certainty suddenly start causing the ball to find the centre of the hole?

Nevertheless the golfer will always remain optimistic. Never mind that the last time he played he posted his worst score ever. Never mind that on arriving home he had kicked the dog and thrown his clubs into the garage and vowed never to play golf again as long as he drew breath. Never mind that he had told his wife that if he ever so much as mentioned the word golf again, let alone play it, he would buy her a complete new wardrobe. Since then the penny will have dropped. He will have finally realised at long last that for all the years he has been playing his grip has been wrong; or that he has been leaning too far forward in his stance, or not far enough; or that he has been standing too near to the ball, or too far away from it; or he has had the ball too far back in his stance, or too far forward. Or his knees have been bent too much or not bent enough. Or his feet have been too far apart, or too near to each other. Now, having made the necessary adjustment, things would be hunky dory.

Or perhaps the problem might not have been physical, but mental. The golfer may have realised he was too tense and uptight, so had invested in a relaxation tape and had benefited from its soothing words of wisdom. Now, fully relaxed and downtight, he would finally be able to do himself justice. Or he may have realised he was
too
relaxed, and to counteract this had presented himself on the first tee after first having psyched himself up for the previous six hours by standing naked in a barrelful of crabs.

Or he may have had a lesson from the professional. As was the case with Sylvester Cuddington.

“
Oh by the way,” said that very golfer to his companions as he teed up his ball, “I've had a lesson since we last played.”

“
I'd b-better g-go for my t-tin hat,” said Jones-Jones.

Treforest too was well aware of the doubtful benefits of a golf lesson. “Get one for me while you're at it, Taff; I'll need one if he hits the ball anything like he did the last time he had a lesson.”

“
No need for tin hats, Ged,” said Cuddington, oozing confidence, “Or any other protection for that matter. I'm very straight now, swinging like an Open winner, the pro really sorted out me out.”

“
Tobin?” said Treforest in disbelief. “It would take him all his time to sort out an empty cupboard.”

Jones-Jones was quick to agree, though not as quick in conveying his agreement, due to his stutter. “I should s-say s-so. He's r-rubbish, that T-Tobin. He's m-more interested in s-selling you a new s-sweater than t-teaching you how to play golf p-properly.”

Cuddington however, far from defending Tobin, shared his playing partner’s opinion of the Sunnymere professional. “I didn't go to Tobin,” he said. “Complete waste of money. No, I went to that new bloke they've got at the Municipal. He talked a lot of sense.”

“
What did he have to say?” asked Treforest, hopeful that the teachings of the professional at the nearby public golf course might improve his own game, where others had failed.

“
First he told me it was absolutely pointless him trying to teach me how to swing a golf club correctly,” said Cuddington.

“
Because of your hump?” said Treforest.

Cuddington didn’t mind people referring to his hump no more than Treforest and Jones-Jones minded people bringing up their afflictions in conversation. All had been born with their burdens and were by now quite comfortable with them, although Cuddington didn’t much care for being called Quasimodo, which he had been on several occasions, once, appropriately if somewhat insensitively, outside Notre Dame Cathedral; but never by a golfer.

“
No he said it was my age,” continued Cuddington. “He said that over the years I'd picked up too many bad habits, which I'd never get rid of now no matter how hard I tried. He said I would be far better off living with my bad habits and adapting to them, and that as long as I remembered to make the same mistakes with my downswing as I'd made with my backswing I wouldn't go far wrong.”

“
M-make the same mistakes with your d-downswing as you d-do with your b-backswing?”

“
Make as many mistakes coming down as you did going up, was the way he put it,” affirmed Cuddington. “And not even necessarily in the same order. And it works too. He had me hitting the ball better than I've ever hit it in my life. I hit one drive two hundred and fifty yards”

Jones-Jones was impressed. “T-two hundred and f-fifty yards? I d-don’t g-go that f-far on my h-holidays.”

Watching them, Mr Captain, showing a little concern, now called over to them. “You'd better get a move on, gentlemen,” he said, pointing at his watch, “You'll be holding up the next group if you’re not careful.”

“
Right away, Mr Captain,” said Cuddington, and putting his newly acquired skill to good use proceeded to hit a booming drive that split the fairway.

Jones-Jones and Treforest watched the ball disappear into the distance and come to rest some two hundred and thirty yards away. Jones-Jones was even more impressed now he had witnessed Cuddington’s words transformed into reality. “I m-might have a g-go at that myself,” he said. “How about you, G-Ged?”

“
Does the Pope shit on Catholics?” said Treforest.

Due to her having had to report Tobin's unseemly but fortuitous behaviour to her husband without delay, the disc-jockey was already setting up his equipment when Millicent swept into the golf club’s function room. She hadn't expected to like what she saw and Daddy Rhythm's appearance did nothing to belie her expectations, fat forty-year-olds with purple Mohican haircuts and green lipstick being far from her favourite example of
Homo sapiens.
At least the yob wasn't wearing earrings, Millicent noted, thankfully. “I am the wife of Mr Captain,” she said to him imperiously, losing no time in making her exalted position in the hierarchy of the golf club clear to Daddy Rhythm, should he be under the illusion he was dealing with the hired help.

Daddy Rhythm, taking his cue from Millicent, thinking perhaps that it was the usual form of address in golfing circles said, “I am the husband of Mrs Potts.”

Millicent raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“
Ted Potts. Otherwise known as Daddy Rhythm.” He held out his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs Captain.”

“
Fridlington.”

“
What?”

“
My name is Fridlington, Mrs Fridlington.”

“
I thought you said it was Mrs Captain?”

“
I said I was the wife of Mr Captain.”

Daddy Rhythm thought he understood. “Got you. You kept your maiden name. For professional reasons I suppose. Are you in the business?”

Millicent was about to make another attempt at putting Daddy Rhythm right but felt that enough time had been wasted on the cretin already. Daddy Rhythm’s hand was still suspended in mid-air waiting for something to shake, however Millicent had always considered disc-jockeys to be trade, and a highly dubious trade at that, and she never shook hands with tradesmen on principle - apart from the question of social class one never knew where their hands had been - so ignoring his hand she got straight down to business. “Those loudspeakers are rather large, aren't they,” she said, in a tone which made it abundantly clear she didn't regard the dimensions of the four feet six inches high by two feet wide towers of power as a virtue.

“
Two thousand watts RMS each,” said Daddy Rhythm, proudly. “Delivering a hundred and twenty decibels of pure pulsating rhythm when I crank up the amps to eleven,” he continued, indicating the three amplifiers holding up his quadruple deck CD player. Millicent had no idea how loud a decibel was but a hundred and twenty of them sounded far too many for her liking and her expression said as much. “It'll blow your mind,” added Daddy Rhythm, confirming her fears.

“
I don't wish to have my mind blown, thank you very much. And I'm quite sure the Mayor doesn't either.”

Daddy Rhythm was immediately sympathetic. “Well I can understand that. I mean animals have a much higher sense of hearing, don't they.”

“
Pardon?”

Something suddenly struck Daddy Rhythm. “But won't it be outside in the fields?”

“
In the fields?”

“
Or in its stable?”

“
Won't what be in its stable?”

“
Your mare.”

“
My mare? What mare?”

“
The one you said wouldn't want its mind being blown?”

Millicent was fully aware that the average disc-jockey wasn't on the front row when brains were given out, and was in all probability stood at the back sucking his thumb, but she hadn't up until now thought they were quite as thick as Daddy Rhythm appeared to be. “The
Lord
Mayor!” she said. “It is the
Lord
Mayor who will be the guest of honour this evening!”

Daddy Rhythm's eyes lit up. “Will he be wearing his chain? Daddy Rhythm loves all that ceremonial shit. Please tell me he’ll be wearing his chain?”

Anxious to get on, Millicent let Daddy Rhythm's use of the word 'shit' go unchallenged for the time being, but made a mental note to come back to it later, and ignoring his request for information about the Mayor’s mode of dress that evening she ploughed on. “Returning to the volume of your disco,” she said firmly. “You will be required to keep it low, throughout the entire evening.”

Daddy Rhythm looked doubtful. “Well you're the boss. But if I do that I won't enjoy myself and if Daddy Rhythm doesn't enjoy himself the chances are you won't enjoy yourself either.”

“
I will be the judge of what I will and will not enjoy,” said Millicent, huffily. “And your enjoyment doesn't enter into the matter. Your job is to provide the music, not to enjoy yourself. So loudspeakers at a low volume throughout the evening, please. And no flashing lights.”

Daddy Rhythm could scarcely believe his ears. Was the woman out of her tree? “No flashing lights? But flashing lights is half the fun.”

“
Then we will settle for half the fun only. She who pays the piper.”

“
You want a piper? Just leave it to Daddy Rhythm. We had one at the gig I did last New Year's Eve. Scotch Abdul. An Arab but you'd never know it the way he plays those bagpipes. The man is a maestro, an artist. I have his card,” he ended, reaching into the pocket of his lime and lemon coloured velvet waistcoat.

“
I don't want a blasted piper!” screamed Millicent, nearing the end of her tether.

“
I thought you....?”

Before Daddy Rhythm could maybe suggest bringing along an Albanian who played the didgeridoo accompanied by a Pakistani on a Jew’s harp Millicent interrupted him. “Well I didn't. Now then, what type of music do you intend to play?”

Daddy Rhythm spread his hands. “There we won't have a problem. There things will be cool. I do Soul, Hip-hop, Garage, Rap, House, some Lord Nose and the Bogies….”

“
No thank you to the last,” Millicent sniffed, “I could have had them in person instead of you had I so desired.”

Daddy Rhythm's surprise at Millicent's vetoing the flashing lights was as nothing compared to the shock he received on hearing that she'd shunned Lord Nose and the Bogies. “And you turned them down? Lord Nose and the Bogies? Are you mad? They're the next big thing, Mrs Captain.”

“
Fridlington.”

“
Sorry, couldn’t remember that. Mrs Captain is easier, I’ll call you that.”

Millicent stamped her foot. “You will call me Mrs Fridlington!”

“
Right. No need to lose it, doll. But you really should have gone with Lord Nose and the Bogies if you don’t mind me saying so. They're already enormous on the underground scene.”

“
Under the ground is the best place for them, by the sound of them. Six feet under it.”