Captain's Day (19 page)

“
And what is that supposed to mean?” demanded Mrs Quayle.

“
Look, just clear off out of it, will you!” said Chapman.

Mrs Rattray leapt to her friend's defence. “You can
’
t talk to Mrs Quayle like that. She
’
s just had a conservatory in!”

“
I couldn
’
t give a shit if she
’
s just had the milkman in, clear off,” said Chapman.

“
Well!” said Mrs Quayle. “If that
doesn’
t take the biscuit! Mr Captain will hear of this.”

In
Daddy Rhythm’s considered opinion Millicent had been far too dismissive about Lord Nose and the Bogies and he felt that once she'd had the chance to hear them she would very quickly become a fan. With his equipment finally set up the disc-jockey was now about to put this theory to the test. Initially his plan had been to wait until the dinner dance to surprise Millicent and the rest of the golf club with the talents of his
favourite
group, but then decided that if he were to give everyone a preview of the delights to come it would cheer them up a bit if their golf wasn't going too well, in addition to giving them all something to look forward to.

One of the giant loudspeakers was already pointing in the direction of the large windows that looked out onto the golf course and Daddy Rhythm now muscled the other one round until it was pointing the same way as its twin. He had already opened wide all the windows. Now he cued in the second track of the CD 'Lord Nose and the Bogies Greatest Tits', cranked up the volume of the three amplifiers to maximum, and seconds later a hundred and twenty decibels of 'I Don't Give a Toss', but sounding even louder due to the screech of Lord Nose’s falsetto voice and drummer Snot Green’s generous use of his two base drums and crash cymbals, hit the golf course.

I don't give a toss

You could be nailed to a cross

But it’s sod all to do with me

‘
cos I don’t give a toss

I’m like Jonathan Woss

And I don’t give a toss toss toss!

I don’t give a shite

You might think that’s not right

But it’s sod all to do with you

‘
cos I don’t give a shite

As long as I’m all right

No I don’t give a shite shite shite!

I don't give a fuck

So you’re down on your luck

Well it’s sod all to do with me

‘
cos I don’t give a fuck

So that’s your fucking luck

For I don’t give a fuck fuck fuck!

The pro's shop was situated between the clubhouse and the golf course and received the full blast of it.

“
Awesome,” said Darren.

The sound was almost as loud in the beer tent where, along with everyone else within a mile, Millicent learned that Lord Nose and the Bogies didn't give a toss and didn't give a shite. However, unlike everyone else, she never did find out they didn't give a fuck as just before the start of the third verse she fainted.

“
You'd better move her outside,” advised the Lady Captain to Millicent's father and his friends as soon as the song had ended and she could hear herself speak, “where she can get some fresh air.”

Mr Captain was returning from the beer tent when the fusillade of F-words hit him, a phenomenon that had rendered him absolutely mortified and had made a very large contribution towards his day being spoiled. His mortification however was tempered by the relief that it hadn't happened in the presence of the Lord Mayor. He now made for the clubhouse and Daddy Rhythm to ensure that that terrible prospect could never come about.

10.40 a.m.

R Thompson (12)

R Livermore (17)

J Purseglove (18)

After Moss had signalled the threesome behind to play through, Ray Livermore hit his tee shot into the left-hand rough and it took he and his playing partners Reg Thompson and John Purseglove about three minutes to find it. After Livermore had whacked the wayward ball some fifty yards or so back onto the fairway and they had all set off after it Thompson said: “So this Englishman pitched up in this little village in the middle of Wales and the place was deserted except for this old Welshman sat on a bench at the side of the road, and the Englishman said to him 'Excuse me, I'm looking for a man called Evans. We met on holiday at Butlin’s recently; you wouldn't happen to know where he lives, would you?' And the Welshman said 'Well we've got a lot of people called Evans in this village, boyo, it's a very popular name in these parts is Evans, we have more people called Evans than we have called Jones and we have a lot of people called Jones. Can you tell me anything about him?' And the Englishman said 'He has very blonde hair.' And the Welshman said 'It could be Evans the Butcher then, he has very blonde hair. Is he tall?' And the Englishman said 'No he's quite short actually.' And the Welshman said 'Very blonde and quite short, eh? That sounds like Evans the Baker, Evans the Baker is blonde and quite short. Is he fat?' And the Englishman said 'No, he’s quite thin.' And the Welshman said ‘Very blonde, quite short and quite thin, eh? That sounds like Evans the Grocer. Did he walk with a limp?' And the Englishman said 'No, he walked perfectly normally.' And the Welshman said 'Not him either then. Can you tell me anything else about him?' And the Englishman said 'Well like I said we met on holiday at Butlin's, he was in the next chalet to us and we got quite friendly, then on the last day of the holiday while I was out he had sex with my wife, then stole my best suit out of the wardrobe with my wallet and all my money in it, then to top it off he shit on my doorstep.' And the Welshman said 'Oh you mean Evans the Twat’.”

Livermore and Purseglove burst out laughing.

“
Wonderful,” said Livermore.

“
A cracker,” agreed Purseglove.

By then they were almost upon Hartley, Critchlow and Moss who were waiting at the side of the fairway. Hartley was absolutely seething. He glared at them and said, “So it's something to laugh about is it? Us having to let you through?”

“
No,” said Purseglove.

“
Not at all,” said Livermore.

“
Then why are you laughing?”

“
Reg just told us a very funny joke,” said Purseglove.

“
Oh I like a good joke,” said Moss, his face lighting up, “Tell it to us would you Reg?”

Thompson took a deep breath. “Well this Englishman pitched up in this little village in the middle of Wales, and the place….”

Hartley went ballistic. “Do you bloody mind?” he snarled, steam coming from his ears. “We
’
re trying to play a game of golf here!”

“
Steady on Alan,” said Livermore, noting the veins standing out on Hartley’s forehead, “you’ll be doing yourself a mischief.”

Moss now saw the opportunity for another cautionary tale from his treasury of golf anecdotes and seized on it like a hungry ferret that had waylaid a careless rabbit. He started to recite: “As Dr A S Lamb once said, ‘Golf increases the blood pressure, ruins the disposition, induces neurasthenia, hurts’….”

That was as far as he got, and if Critchlow hadn’t had the presence of mind to dive in and grab Hartley in a bear hug when the latter drew back his arm to smite Moss on the jaw Hartley would now be an ex-member of Sunnymere (golf clubs not taking kindly to members hitting each other, except with golf balls of course, which is unavoidable given the nature of the game and the skills of those participating in it). In the event Critchlow’s intervention, although not making Hartley any less angry with Moss, at least slowed him down enough for him to contemplate what might be the possible outcome should he succeed in carrying out the assault on his playing partner. Common sense prevailed after a few moments and Hartley visibly calmed down. Critchlow released him, whereupon Hartley, not trusting himself to say another word, grabbed hold of his trolley and marched back down the fairway and off the course. He had played just two hundred and thirty yards of the first of the eighteen holes. A new record.

On his way to deal in no uncertain terms with Daddy Rhythm Mr Captain was surprised by the sight of two
police constables accompanied by a small boy making their way on to the golf course. Mr Captain
’
s hackles rose immediately. Sunnymere Golf Club was private property and could be visited only at the invitation of a member, and he was quite certain that no one would have offered an invitation to two uniformed policemen and a scruffy little boy, and especially on Captain
’
s Day. He waited until they were almost level with him then stepped in front of them and said, “Yes, can I help you?” in a tone of voice which made it quite clear that it would be highly unlikely he would be able to help anyone who had obviously no right to be there in the first place.

Constable Fearon did not like golf. As a sport he rated it somewhere between topless darts and synchronized tiddlywinks. A dyed-in-the-wool
Labour
Party supporter of the old school he had always held the opinion that golf was a class-ridden game and that those who played it were fancy-trousered dickheads, and had once expressed the opinion that if golfers were to appear in the street in the same clothes in which they paraded themselves on the golf course they would be locked up, and he would like to be the one who did the locking up.

If he had little time for golfers he had even less time for golfers who had recently abused his son by tying him to a golf trolley with a pair of shoelaces and had then proceeded to cart him round the golf course for a few holes, and about the same amount of time for ones dresse
d in plus fours and stupid tartan hats like the one confronting him at the moment.

Furthermore he was far better at detecting irony than he would ever be at detecting crime, and
Mr
Captain's
condescending
'Yes, can I help you?' had done nothing to improve his opinion of golfers, and was the reason he now gave him even shorter shrift than he would normally have given to a golfer. “Out of the bleeding way,
Severiano
,” he snarled, pushing Mr Captain aside.

Mr Captain was a law abiding citizen; however the constables were on the golf course, his golf course, of which he was the captain, and if anyone was going anywhere, policemen or no policemen, he would know the reason why. “And what is the purpose of your visit?” he demanded, tracking back and getting himself in front of Constable Fearon again and barring his way.

Fearon stopped and regarded Mr Captain as though he were a petty criminal he had just apprehended whilst trying to mug an old lady. “Not that it's any of your business but my child has reported to me that one of your golfers has abused him,” he said, indicating Jason, who was clearly enjoying the confrontation.

“
One of our golfers?” Mr Captain shook his head violently. “Quite impossible. When is this unlikely scenario supposed to have happened?”

“
It isn
’
t
supposed
to have happened, it did happen. Earlier this morning. He tied him to his golf trolley.”

“
Tied him to his golf trolley?” Mr Captain shook his head again. “A golfer would never do that. Especially not a Sunnymere member. There must be some mistake.”

“
Yes and the bent bastard who tied my boy to his trolley has made it. Show him your wrists, Jason.”

Jason did as he was bidden. “They're all red see.” he said, pointing to the weals on his wrists. “Where the shoelaces dug in.”

Mr Captain glanced at Jason
’
s wrists. “He probably did that to himself.”

“
I'll do you myself if you don't stop giving me lip and start co-operating,” said Fearon. “So who
’
s responsible for it?”

“
They called him Mr Vice, Dad.” said Jason. “The one who did it.”

Fearon's face lit up.
“Mr Vice? Why didn't you tell me that before?”

“
I've only just remembered.”

Fearon scratched his chin. “Mr Vice, eh? So it would appear we could have a
sexually
-motivated
crime on our hands.”

Mr Captain didn’t care at all for the way the conversation was heading and now nipped in smartly to stop it heading any farther in that direction. “No, you misunderstand completely. Mr Vice isn't his real name. His real name is Robin Garland.”

Fearon leapt onto this new development immediately. “So Mr Vice is an alias?”

“
What? No, he's just known as Mr Vice by the members.”

“
Why? What's he into this Mr Vice character? Sado-masochism I shouldn’t wonder, tying little boys up.”

“
Or he could be a paedophile,” said Constable James, now joining in the conversation, paedophile crimes being a speciality of his, as well as his hobby. “Sounds to me like he’s a paedophile, Fearo.”

“
He isn't anything of the sort,” protested Mr Captain. “He's a perfectly respectable gentleman.”

“
That's the impression they all give,” said Fearon, knowledgeably. “It’s a front; butter wouldn’t melt with some of the bastards. But what respectable man goes about tying kids up? Eh? Now get out of my way before I do you for obstructing a police officer in the course of his duty.”