Captain's Day (23 page)

“
A woman?”

“
The Lady Captain-Erect, I believe. Nine nine nine call. Usually it’s cats stuck up trees, a woman will make a nice change, give me the chance to practice my fireman's lift. That's difficult on cats.”

Mr Captain was apoplectic. “You can't go onto the golf course with a fire engine just to get a woman down from a tree!”

Blakey, the other fireman in the cab, leaned over. “Just how long do you think our ladder is, mate?”

“
What?”

“
Well we can't reach her from here, can we? So stop messing about and tell us where the thirteenth green is, we’ve got a job to do.”

In view of the imminent arrival of the Mayor Mr Captain considered refusing point blank to tell the firemen the whereabouts of the thirteenth green in the hope they would turn round and go away, then dismissed the idea, realising that if he didn’t tell them someone else was sure to. He glanced at his watch. Almost ten past eleven. The thirteenth green was quite some distance away. By the time the fire engine had made its way there and rescued the Lady Captain-Elect the Mayor could very well have made his visit and departed for his next appointment. In addition he was mindful that public services didn't seem to have much sense of direction when it came to golf courses, if the policemen who had recently arrived back at the first tee twenty minutes after leaving it were anything to go by, and that there was an excellent chance the fire engine would be out on the golf course and out of sight for quite some time, so all things considered he decided to be helpful. “It's over there,” he said, pointing in the approximate direction of the thirteenth green. “No hurry.”

On regaining consciousness Millicent wondered what on earth she was doing lying stretched out on the ground behind the beer tent with a couple of cans of lager, thoughtfully placed there by Oldknow, supporting her head as a sort of alcoholic pillow. She searched her mind for some clue. The last thing she could remember was being in the beer tent when she had introduced her father and his two friends to the Lady Captain and had asked what they would like to drink. She suddenly sat bolt upright as she recalled what had happened next. That revolting song had been played! And at such a deafening volume that the whole golf course must have heard it! She glanced at her watch. Good Lord, it must have been over twenty minutes ago. She leapt to her feet. Daddy Rhythm would have to be dealt with forthwith! He would have to go! She would bring her record player and allow that to provide the music for the dance that evening, or employ her next-door neighbour's seven-year-old to provide it on his toy trumpet, anything rather than risk that detestable Daddy Rhythm degenerate playing his horrible music again.

She rolled up her sleeves and set off for the clubhouse, so intent on dealing with the Daddy Rhythm situation that she failed to notice the sounds of merriment emanating from within the beer tent. If she had heard Wormald's cry of “Get 'em off!” she might have made dealing with the awful Daddy Rhythm her second priority. But unfortunately she didn't.

11.10 a.m.

S Summers (13)

J Fredericks (14)

A Jacobson (17)

“
Well you can't join us and that's all there is to it,” said Jerold Fredericks.

Phyllis appealed to Summers for support. “How do you feel about it, Sid?”

Most of the male members at Sunnymere treated the Phyllis Hill situation as a bit of a giggle and had no objection to playing with her. Fredrickson however was not one of them.”It doesn't matter a monkey’s doo-dah how Sid feels about it,” he said, before Summers could reply, “I'm not playing golf with a man who's had his tackle cut off and dresses up like a woman, and that's all about it.”

Very often people who have been made aware they aren't wanted, as Phyllis had just so comprehensively been by Fredericks, choose not pursue the matter further and quietly let the matter drop. However Phyllis loved her golf almost as much as she loved being a woman, so stuck manfully, or perhaps womanfully, to her guns, and stood up to Fredericks. “I have a perfect right,” she said, pushing out her artificial chest.

“
No you haven't,” said Fredericks.

“
Or a perfect left,” added Summers, with a grin.

“
What?” said Fredericks.

“
Her breasts. They're neither of them perfect, they're falsies.”

Fredericks eyed his playing partner reproachfully. “This is nothing to joke about, Sid.”

“
I was only saying,” said Summers, a little shamefaced.

Fredericks admonished him. “Well don't.” He turned his attention to Phyllis. “So kindly clear off and let us get on with our game.”

Phyllis wasn’t about to give up so easily. She had noticed Mr Captain hovering nearby and now, employing the feminine wiles she seemed to have gained when she acquired her vagina and blonde wig she said, “I think we should let Mr Captain decide whether or not I can play with you,” then added, artfully, “It is his Captain's Day, after all.” With that she turned to Mr Captain, gave him the benefit of a sweet smile, and said, “
Do
you think I should be allowed play with Sid and Jerold, Mr Captain?”

At that moment there was only one thing in the whole world that Mr Captain would have liked more than for Phyllis to join Sid and Jerold, and for the three of them to get themselves up the fairway and out of view of the Mayor as rapidly as possible, and that was for Phyllis to be struck by a bolt of lightning and reduced to a pile of smouldering cinders, but as that happy happening didn't seem likely he had no alternative but to side with Phyllis. “Yes Philip, I do think you should be allowed to play with Jerold and Sid,” he said, then added, with a meaningful look at Fredericks, “In fact I insist upon it. And that is my final decision.”

“
There you are,” said Phyllis, with the little pout she had been practising, “Mr Captain says you have to let me play with you.”

Fredericks however was made of just as stern a stuff as Phyllis. “Mr Captain,” he said firmly, “can take a hike. And you Phyllis can go with him.”
Phyllis was nothing if not stubborn, especially when it came to defending her rights as a woman and a golfer. She regarded Fredericks coolly for a moment, then said, “I intend, as you will soon discover Jerold, to do precisely the opposite of taking a hike. Because if I'm not going to be allowed to play then nobody else will be allowed to play,” and with that she lay down on the ground between the tee markers, all six feet two inches of her, effectively stopping anyone from driving off the tee

“
Juan Under.”

“
Al Bertrosstoo

“
Sick Zover.”

Playing the seventeenth Arbuthnott, still having the game of his life, was three over par gross, and heading for a finishing score of something like a net fifty six, a remarkable achievement by any standards. Even if he were to have a disaster of Jean Van der Velde proportions at the eighteenth he would still come in with something like a net sixty, an excellent score round the reasonably difficult Sunnymere course with its four large ponds, all of which came into play at numerous holes, and better by three strokes than the score Alec Adams intended to put in.

Naturally Arbuthnott was as pleased as punch with his round and even though he had promised himself that he wouldn't boast about his performance any more, for fear of Chapman accusing him of crowing again, he couldn't resist just a small crow as his approach shot hit the green in the regulation two strokes and came to rest in the two putt zone. “Well,” he said, slotting his six iron back into his bag, “a four at the last and I reckon the trophy will be mine. If it isn’t already.”

Chapman, whose chances of winning had disappeared about seven holes back along with whatever good grace he had left, was onto Arbuthnott like a shot. “I thought you were going to give over crowing? But no, there you go again. You just can’t help yourself can you.”

“
What do you mean, again?” Arbuthnott protested. “I haven't crowed once since the eighth green. I deliberately haven't crowed.”

“
You don't have to, you've been strutting about like a cockerel for the last half hour.”

“
Anyway I wasn't crowing. I was just making the point that if I two putt this green and get a four at the last the trophy will be mine.”

“
If
you two putt this green and get a four at the last.”

Unfortunately, having permitted himself a little crow, Arbuthnott had developed the taste for it again. “There's no way I’ll three putt this green the way I'm putting, Gerry,” he crowed. “And even if I took a five or a six at the last, which I won’t, I would still win the Captain’s Day trophy by a country mile.”

“
Crow, crow crow,” said Chapman. “Crow crow, bloody crow.”

Arbuthnott gave a shrug of his shoulders. “Be like that if it makes you feel any better. But I’m just stating a fact. Nothing can stop me now.” Never would the expression ‘famous last words’ prove to be more appropriate.

The regular job of helicopter pilot Brian Green was to take groups of up to four people on pleasure flights round the Derbyshire Dales. It was work that paid handsomely, but after well over a thousand such flights was a job which bored him to death. Boring it might have been but he was finding that flying his helicopter round and round the restricted range of the eighteen holes of Sunnymere golf course to be infinitely worse.

Whilst searching his mind for something to relieve the monotony of his task he had recalled that it had been quite amusing when his helicopter had suddenly appeared as if from nowhere and frightened the golfers putting out on the third green. Unable to come up with anything that offered a better prospect of light relief he decided to try a similar manoeuvre again. When he did, as Thompson, Livermore and Purseglove were putting out, the reaction of the golfers was even more amusing than it had been the first time he’d done it. Thompson had shrieked and dropped to his knees, shielding himself as if from some monster in a horror movie, Livermore had stood stock still, absolutely mortified, and peed in his trousers, whilst Purseglove, in an effort to get out of the way, had tripped over his own feet, fallen headlong into a bunker and ended up with a mouthful of sand. In the cockpit Green had roared with laughter. Martin Morton, the man videoing the proceedings, had also found the incident quite amusing and had joined in the laughter. However, being a golfer himself, he at least had the decency to stop filming.

Having herself fainted not too long ago Millicent thought the same fate had befallen Phyllis on approaching the first tee and seeing her lying there, but on her arrival she could clearly see otherwise. A distressed Mr Captain quickly filled her in with the details as to why, then went on, “This could spoil my day, Millicent. No one will be able to tee off while that thing insists on lying there.”

“
Well you have my every sympathy darling, which goes without saying, but I really don’t see what I can do about it,” said Millicent. “Apart from that I have problems of my own. I have that wretched Daddy Rhythm person to sort out.”

“
If it is to chastise him I was about to do that myself half-an-hour ago but found the yobbo had already left. So if you could perhaps have a word with Philip, Millicent, now you have the time? Promise him you'll allow him to play in the ladies’ competition in future perhaps? No need to fulfil that undertaking of course. Anything to move him off….” Mr Captain suddenly cut off what he was about to say in favour of a strangulated cry of “Good Lord!” and his demeanour changed in an instant from very worried to the verge of panic.

“
What on earth’s the matter Henry?” said Millicent, alarmed.

“
The press! The press are here already.” Mr Captain pointed over Millicent’s shoulder.

Millicent turned to see Derbyshire Dales Times reporter Ed Eagles accompanied by staff photographer Ben Booth heading towards them.

“
Quick, we'll have to head them off,” said Mr Captain, “We can’t have them seeing Philip, you know what the press is like.”

Millicent knew only too well what the press was like. Fortunately she also knew what was almost guaranteed to divert them. “I'll take them to the beer tent for a free drink,” she said, “Keep them well out of the way until the Mayor arrives.”

With that Mr Captain and Millicent quickly closed in on the two press men. “Good morning, gentlemen,” called Mr Captain, sounding a lot more cheerful than he felt. “You've arrived in good time I see.”

“
Why is that woman lying down on the first tee?” demanded Eagles, peering over Mr Captain's shoulder, before Millicent could sidetrack him with an offer of liquid refreshment.

“
What woman?” said Mr Captain, looking hopefully in exactly the opposite direction to the first tee, just in case there was a woman over there doing something slightly less embarrassing, who he could palm off on Eagles.

“
There's a big blonde bird lying on the first tee.”

“
How about a drink, gentlemen?” said Millicent, taking hold of Eagles’ arm and attempting to steer him towards the beer tent.

The reporter pushed Millicent's hand away. “Hold on, hold on a minute. What's the story with the blonde chick?”

“
Nothing,” said Mr Captain. “No story at all. He just fainted.”

“
He?”

“
My husband means 'she',” said Millicent, quickly. “Now if you'd like to….”