Captain's Day (26 page)

“
Ah,” said Arbuthnott. “I get it now. That's why you're refusing to help me, isn’t it. Because I crowed a little about winning.”

“
I'm not helping you because I refuse point blank to scratch about in a pile of horseshit looking for your ball,” said Chapman. “Your crowing didn’t affect my decision in the slightest, it just made it easier to make.”

“
Well I don't refuse to scratch about in horseshit looking for my ball!” fumed Arbuthnott, and promptly stepped onto the pile of manure and started searching.

Fredericks had noticed the arrival of the manure, and as Phyllis wasn't showing any signs of vacating the first tee, and for want of something better to do, he had wandered over to the eighteenth green to take a closer look at it. Joining him in the inspection of the new feature were his playing partner Summers, the next threesome of John Huddlestone, Freddie Mickleover and Tony Sturgess, plus Derbyshire Dales Times staff Ed Eagles and Ben Booth (who had by now obtained an excellent crotch shot of Phyllis which he was going to email to the Daily Sport just as soon as he could get to his computer). Derbyshire Dales Radio reporter Dirk Kirk had in the meantime also arrived on the scene.

“
Get a photograph of that,” Eagles urgently instructed Booth, as soon as Arbuthnott had started scrambling around in the pile of manure like some demented dung beetle. “I don't know what's going on here but what with that sex change blonde picketing the first tee and this bloke playing around in a heap of horseshit I can sense a major story brewing here.”

As Armitage raced along the phallus-lined purple fairway – purple at the moment that is, having previously been red, orange, black, ultramarine and all of these colours at the same time during the five minutes or so of his flight from the golf course – he never wanted to see or even think about another penis again as long as he lived. Death would be preferable to a life in which he had to see another dick. Or if the Grim Reaper wouldn't take pity on him and do him the favour of taking his life some other way of escape from the phalluses would do; if he couldn’t outrun them perhaps some haven in which he could hide from them? Please? He was soon to have his wish, both wishes in fact, because as he ran down the eighteenth fairway towards the green, behind which ten more human being-sized penises were standing, such a haven presented itself. However it was to prove to be anything but a safe haven.

If nothing that had happened previously had failed to spoil Mr Captain's day completely then what he had just witnessed in the beer tent in the company of the Lord Mayor certainly had. The only consolation was that the Mayor didn't seem to have been too put out by it, so with a bit of luck his chances of becoming a councillor hadn't been damaged beyond repair. On his way to the eighteenth green he determined to demonstrate to the Mayor just what an important position the role of captain of a golf club was, and in particular how efficiently he was fulfilling that role. When he arrived there, only to see Arbuthnott standing wild-eyed atop a huge pile of manure, feverishly scooping up large handfuls of it and sifting it through his fingers as if he was prospecting for gold, he wasn't at all sure if it represented an opportunity to display his skills of captaincy by dealing with the situation or an invitation to simply throw in the towel and take up brass rubbing.

Before he could make up his mind which of these options to take, the Mayor, displaying the powers of observation that had made him a power in local government, spoke up. “Isn't that a pile of manure?”

“
Yes,” said Mr Captain. He made no attempt to explain the appearance of the manure on the green, in the forlorn hope that the Mayor was simply making an observation and not posing an embarrassing question.

The Mayor immediately dashed his hopes. “What's it doing there?”

“
Fertilizer,” said Millicent, coming to the rescue once again. “Summer dressing.” She indicated Arbuthnott, who was still feverishly sifting handfuls of the manure. “That's the head greenkeeper.” At that moment Armitage came hurtling into the picture from the side of the eighteenth fairway and dived head first into the pile of manure, disappearing up to his waist with a loud squelch. “And his assistant,” Millicent continued. “As you can see, as eager to get stuck into his work as ever; that’s the sort of dedicated staff we have here at Sunnymere.”

“
There's that
man
!” shrieked Mrs Rattray, suddenly spotting Irwin.

Mrs Quayle looked in the direction in which Mrs Rattray was pointing and saw that her companion was correct; it was indeed the man who had put her in the tree.

The fire engine, driven by Jeffers, with Mrs Quayle, Mrs Rattray and Mrs Salinas seated alongside him in the cab and Blakey standing on the running board, was making its way down the edge of the sixteenth fairway. Fifty yards distant on the green Irwin was facing a difficult downhill putt to save his par. His life, as well as his putt, was soon to go downhill, and difficulties of a much greater magnitude were to engage his attention as Mrs Quayle, the glint of revenge in her eye, now suddenly grabbed hold of the steering wheel and wrenched it round so that the fire engine was pointing directly at Irwin.

“
There
was
that man,” she cried. “There
was
that man! Or soon will be!”

Realising Mrs Quayle's intentions, and having no wish to be cited as an accomplice on a charge of manslaughter, Jeffers took a firmer grip on the steering wheel and attempted to wrench it back. Mrs Quayle fought back spiritedly but Jeffers’ superior strength told and he had just about managed to get the fire engine back on course when Mrs Salinas, as anxious as Mrs Quayle that Irwin should be punished for his sins, came to the assistance of her friend and commenced to beat Jeffers about the head with her handbag. When Jeffers let go of the wheel to protect himself Mrs Quayle was able to re-aim the fire engine squarely at Irwin once more, whilst Mrs Rattray, conscious of the fact that all Jeffers need do to prevent Mrs Quayle running down Irwin was to take his foot off the gas, dropped to the floor, grabbed hold of his foot and held it hard on the accelerator.

His worst fears realised, and trouser-less to boot, on fleeing from Jessica’s bedroom Southfield had almost fallen down the staircase in his rush to put distance between himself and her husband. Having gained the back garden he made his escape through the wicket gate which led directly onto the golf course, Fidler following him in hot and close pursuit.

Southfield was running in a blind panic, not heading anywhere in particular but simply trying to get away, so it was completely by accident that he now found himself on the eighteenth fairway heading towards the green.

The same couldn't be said for Garland, who was also running down the eighteenth fairway towards the green with Constable Fearon in hot pursuit – Constable James having had to stop for a rest - as he knew exactly where he was heading. The eighteenth green was close to the exit to the course, which in turn was close to the car park, where his car was, and his car was both the sanctuary and the means of escape from the bastard of a policeman who was chasing him.

It hadn't yet occurred to him that he would be unable to get into his car, as he kept his keys in his trousers pocket and his trousers were in his golf bag, which was back at the sixteenth green in a bunker, but then the minds of people who are being chased by a policeman are usually fully engaged in ensuring that the policeman doesn’t catch up with them. However when the car park came into view, and his car with it, and he automatically reached for the keys in his trousers pocket, he realised that he hadn’t got any trousers, much less a trousers pocket, and was forced to make a hurried change in his plans.

In fact Daddy Rhythm had not left the golf club, as Mr Captain had supposed. During the rendition of the final verse of I Don't Give a Toss the fuse in one of his amplifiers had blown, and rather than bring along a new fuse that evening he had elected to nip out and buy one and effect the repair there and then.

Now back, and with the new fuse in place, he decided to test it to ensure the amplifier was working correctly. ‘I Don't Give a Toss’ was still on the CD player but Daddy Rhythm, a man who took great pride in never repeating himself where his play list was concerned, decided to treat everyone to another of Lord Nose and the Bogies’ hits, the seminal 'D'you Fancy a Shag?', a much louder, more dynamic number. The windows were still wide open and a minute later all one hundred and twenty decibels of Daddy Rhythm’s rig were hitting all four corners of the golf course once again.

D'you fancy a shag?

Is that your bag?

Or are you just leading me on?

D'you fancy a shag?

I won't call you a slag

So how about me giving you one?

So if you'd like some, cop this, babe

Listening to it, or more correctly trying not to listen to it, Mr Captain was absolutely mortified. Millicent was equally mortified, but on this occasion managed to hold on to consciousness. She would much rather have fainted again. Or preferably gone into a coma for a year or two. The Mayor, for the sake of the dignity of his office, tried to pretend he wasn't hearing it. His wife wasn't hearing it, as after hearing the first line she had stuck her fingers firmly in her ears. Several of the golfers greenside who were hearing it were smiling, whilst Fredericks was laughing out loud. Summers, a big fan of Lord Nose and the Bogies, joined in the singing.

Garland, with Fearon now within a couple of yards of catching him up, now ran on to the green, leapt onto the pile of manure and scrambled up its slippery slopes in an effort to reach its summit. He realised of course that Fearon would have him trapped, but was counting on his assailant not wishing to follow him up there, which would give him a little breathing space in which to figure a way out of the situation in which he had contrived to get himself.

Southfield, now reaching the eighteenth green and observing what Garland had done, came to much the same conclusion regarding his current situation vis-à-vis Fidler, and now joined Garland on the mountain of manure. Both Garland and Southfield had judged the situation correctly as Fidler, like Fearon, proved to be reluctant to follow, preferring to wait at base camp until something developed. They didn’t have long to wait.

Mr Captain, sensing an enquiry from the Mayor as to why another two men had joined Arbuthnott and Armitage on the pile of manure, and taking a cue from his wife’s inspiration of a moment or two ago, spread his arms expansively and said, “More greenkeepers. We really lavish attention on the greens here at Sunnymere.”

“
One of them is completely naked!” said the Mayor, astounded.

“
Yes, just the one,” said Mr Captain, as though the appearance of only one naked man on a pile of manure was the norm at Sunnymere, and entirely acceptable.

“
And the other one is wearing just his underpants.”

“
Yes, he’s just an assistant.”

“
Thanks chaps, it's a Top Flight four,” said Arbuthnott, to Garland and Fidler, too glad of a bit of help in the search for his ball to notice that the entire wardrobe of his helpers consisted of one pair of y-fronts.

Looking on, Fidler overheard Arbuthnott. Although he was prepared to bide his time getting his hands on Garland he wasn’t about to put up with any more of this Top Flight funny business. “Are you taking the piss?” he bellowed at Arbuthnott.

Arbuthnott turned to face him. “What?”

“
You are, aren’t you. You’re taking the piss,” said Fidler, and without bothering to wait for a reply scrambled up the pile of manure and punched Arbuthnott on the jaw, knocking him out cold.

Right on cue, the helicopter had soared into view behind the third green as the threesome there were putting out. On this occasion however pilot Green had chosen the wrong men to upset. Tollemache, who had been putting at the time, and who the helicopter had caused to miss his putt, instead of cowering or falling over in surprise as the previous golfers had done, stood firm, drew back his arm, and threw his club at it. Fortunately it clattered into the fuselage and dropped harmlessly to the ground. However Burton's putter, which followed Tollemache's about a second later, whizzed past the cameraman’s ear before hitting Green straight between the eyes, killing him instantly and leaving the helicopter spinning wildly out of control.

D'you fancy a shag?

(If you're not on the rag)

Or are you just acting the fool?

D'you fancy a shag?

In the back of the Jag

Then I'll run you back to school

So if you'd like some, cop this, babe

Having ripped up at the eleventh, having lost his ball and deeming it not worth his while going back to play another as his chances of winning had long since disappeared, Jones-Jones decided to give Cuddington’s new swing a try, despite what had happened to Treforest when he tried it. His reasoning was that he had nothing to lose now. Apart from that he had by now had the time to watch Cuddington’s technique more closely and believed he could put it into practice. He’d already had a few practice swings, with pleasing results. If anything it would be easier for him, he felt, as he made fewer swing mistakes going back than did Cuddington, so would consequently have fewer to make coming down, making his task that much easier.

He turned to Cuddington. “I’m thinking of g-giving your n-new swing a t-try.”