Captain's Day (7 page)

Their coupling in the woods was born of necessity rather than any desire to fornicate al fresco. He wanted to make love, she wanted to make love, but there was nowhere for them to make it. He shared a bedroom with two older and inconsiderate brothers, who, far from keeping out of the way for an hour or so in order that he and his girlfriend might have the privacy of the bedroom to themselves, were far more likely to burst in on their lovemaking just for the fun of it; she had her own bedroom, but along with it a very strict mother who would ‘have none of that sort of thing going off under my roof, young lady'. Whenever the two young lovers had the opportunity to be together it seemed there was always somebody in Dean's house and always somebody in Gemma's house. This was especially true of Gemma’s house if Dean happened to be in it, Gemma’s mother making sure of that. So they made love wherever they could, and today they were making it in the copse by the second fairway at Sunnymere; and going at it as if their lives depended on it.

Yet another advantage that golf enjoys over most other sports is that it provides almost constant opportunity to engage one’s playing partners in conversation, particularly on the walk between shots. (This maxim applies only to the better golfers who hit the ball reasonably straight, and not of course to the poorer golfers who, once they have left the tee, rarely meet up again until they reach the green.)

During the game of football a conversation is hardly viable, most talk on the field of play being limited to calling for the ball, shouting 'Our ball!' to the referee whenever the ball goes over a by-line whether the player thinks it is his team’s ball or not, telling a fellow team member to get his bleeding finger out, and calling a member of the opposing team a dirty bastard who will very soon be getting what’s fucking coming to him. Tennis too has few possibilities for a pleasant chat; the players are rarely within hearing distance of each other except when they're both at the net, and on those occasions they are far too busy trying to hit the ball back to exchange the latest gossip. As for boxing, well one certainly gets close enough to the man one is fighting to have a natter, as Muhammad Ali has proved with great wit, but both the wearing of a gum shield and the fact that you are constantly being batted round the head by your opponent does little to encourage any conversation other than the odd cry of “Ow, that hurt!”

Golf however throws up many chances for a chat and as Garland, Harris and Ifield were making their way up the first fairway together they were taking the first such opportunity the morning’s round had thrown up.

“
I saw the weather forecast last night,” remarked Harris, to Ifield. “The man didn't say anything about the weather turning; on the contrary he said it was going to be bright and sunny all day.”

“
It is.”

“
Then why did you tell Mr Captain it was going to rain?”

“
To give the self-satisfied prick something to worry about,” said Ifield. He smiled. “We don't want him enjoying his Captain's Day too much, do we.”

“
How much longer do we have to put up with the tit for anyway?” said Harris.

“
Another nine months,” said Garland, sadly.

“
Christ, is it that long? You've got time to have a baby in nine months.”

“
I think I'd rather have a baby than stick another nine months of Henry Fridlington,” said Harris. “I could put up with all the morning sickness and sore nipples and eating coal sandwiches.”

“
Me too,” said Garland. “I’m not too sure about the pain of giving birth though,” he added, after a moment’s reflection.

“
That’s exaggerated, Mr Vice,” said Ifield. “Women make out it’s a lot worse than it is so you’ll feel sorry for them.”

“
I think you could be right there,” agreed Harris. “My grandmother used to say giving birth is only like having a good shit. Mind you, she had fourteen children so by the time she had the fourteenth it probably was like having a good shit.”

“
My grandmother actually gave birth to my Uncle Reg when she
was
having a shit,” said Ifield. “So she’d know for definite.”

“
When she was having a shit?”

“
Yes. Apparently she went to the bathroom for a shit, squeezed like you do, and out came my Uncle Reg along with the shit. She had to haul him out of the lavatory pan by the umbilical cord, smartish. It was only that that stopped him drowning. They were thinking of calling him Lucky before they settled for Reg.”

They walked silently for a while, possibly marvelling at the twin miracles of childbirth and having a good shit, before Garland thought of another topic he felt worthy of giving an airing.

“
When I take over as Mr Captain next year I'm going to have a compulsory beer tent. Every player in my Captain’s Day competition will have to get a minimum of four pints of bitter or six shorts down him before he’s allowed to continue his round.”

“
And no ladies,” said Harris.

“
Well only if you can manage one after the four pints of bitter or six shorts.”

All three of them laughed hugely at Garland's chauvinistic aside, then Ifield produced a packet of sweets from his golf bag and offered them round. “Fancy a mint, Mr Vice?”

“
Do bears shit in the woods?” said Garland, helping himself to a mint.

True to form Red Arrow member Charlie Carter sprayed his tee shot at the second hole fifty yards to the left, whereupon his ball came to rest ten yards or so into the light rough, close by the wall bordering the fairway. He had almost reached the errant sphere and was wondering what sort of a lie he would find it in when an unfamiliar noise to his right captured his attention. He peered over the wall, down into the little copse, and immediately saw the reason for the strange noise. It was a couple making love, the noise being unfamiliar to him as it had been a long time since Carter, now in his early seventies, had had the pleasure of making love, and had completely forgotten what it sounded like.

In the Year of Our Lord 2010 the sight of a couple copulating is quite commonplace. One has only to switch on the television set or visit a cinema and it is bound to appear sooner or later, probably sooner, but the sight of two fit-looking young people making love in the flesh, and with such joyful abandon, was not something one saw every day. A considerate man, Carter immediately thought that his playing partners might like to view the spectacle. Consequently he waved to attract the attention of Bradley and Abbott, some fifty and a hundred yards away respectively, and having gained their attention beckoned them over to join him. They made their way over and as they drew nearer to him Carter put a finger to his lips as a warning for them to keep quiet. Once they had joined him, and after Abbott had remarked that he had never been on this side of the course before and how nice it was, especially the rhododendron bushes, Carter drew their attention to Dean and Gemma, who were still going at it like knives.

Abbott was immediately in awe at the sight set out before him. “Jesus, watch the bugger go,” he whispered.

“
Like the piston on an 0-6-0 shunter,” said Bradley, a trainspotting anorak, keeping his voice down.

“
And not a stitch on,” said Carter, like Bradley keeping his voice down, but not making any attempt to keep the excitement out of it. “Naked as nature intended!”

“
Certainly brings back memories,” said Abbott, who at seventy six was even older than Carter.

“
No age either, by the look of them,” observed Bradley. “When I was that age I hadn't even had a feel of a titty except through a duffel coat, and even then she made me wear gloves.”

“
Yes, we were born fifty years too soon lads,” said Carter, wistfully. “I even missed out on the Swinging Sixties by ten years.”

“
Me too,” said Abbott. “But even the Swinging Sixties didn’t swing anything like as much as things do nowadays.”

They looked down fondly and a little jealously on the coupling couple, for it really was a sight to behold. For the act of love is only rarely engaged in by people blessed with such slim, toned and tanned bodies as those of Dean and Gemma, more typically being performed by couples who carry a generous surplus of white flesh, with the result that the union resembles something akin to a third-rate wrestling bout with added juices, rather than the thing of beauty it was with the two young lovers.

The three watched a little longer, then Carter said, “Come on, we'd best be off, it's making me feel randy and that won't do my game any good at all, I don’t know if I’d be able to putt with a hard on.”

“
It might help you to keep your head still,” said Abbott.

“
It wouldn’t help him keep his arse still,” said Bradley.

And that would have been that. But just at that moment, and accompanied by a joyous moan from Gemma and an enormous grunt from Dean, the couple reached their climax together, and as they came Gemma opened her eyes. And over Dean’s shoulder saw the Red Arrows gazing down at her. She shrieked at least as loud as Fay Wray had when she first set eyes on King Kong, at the same time pointing an accusing finger at them. Concerned for his lover, Dean turned to look at the cause of her anguish. Seeing the three accidental voyeurs he screamed at the top of his voice, “You fucking dirty old men!” at the same time uncoupling himself from his amour and turning to face them.

“
Bloody hell!” said Carter.

“
Shit! “ said Abbott.

“
Bloody shit!” said Bradley

Rage contorting his handsome young features Dean sprang to his feet, shook his fist at the Red Arrows and warned, “Just wait till I get my hands on you, you dirty old buggers!”

Dean was a big lad for his age, six feet two inches tall and well-built, with wide shoulders and a great six-pack, a fact already noted by Carter, hence his anxiety to make himself scarce and with due haste. None of the Red Arrows were anything like so well-built, and if any of them had ever had a six-pack it had long since regressed into a one-pack, and a very large one-pack at that where Abbott and Carter were concerned.

Dean now began to make his way menacingly towards them, and as he showed no signs of letting the wall between them, or his nudity, halt his progress, the Red Arrows knew that the only option open to them was to run for it; to scramble, in Red Arrows parlance. So as one they turned and fled, and on hitting the fairway slipped quite naturally into full Red Arrows mode and peeled off in a sunburst, Abbott heading to his right, Carter to his left, Bradley straight ahead, each of them running as fast as their ancient legs could carry them, which, given that between them they shared an arthritic hip, two arthritic knees, a bad back, a fallen arch, a bunion and two ingrowing toenails, wasn’t very fast at all. Dean, having leapt over the wall and observed that the Red Arrows had split up, was faced with the decision of which one of them to chase. Abbott, the fattest of the three, looked to him to be making the heaviest weather of his flight. Dean targeted him and gave chase.

Mrs Quayle, Mrs Rattray and Mrs Salinas, the three ladies entrusted with the task of measuring in the Nearest the Pin competition, were making their way to the thirteenth green. All the ladies were in their fifties. Mrs Quayle was a quite short, petite woman, whereas Mrs Rattray and Mrs Salinas carried the more generous build more usually associated with lady golfers of their years. Mrs Rattray was especially well-upholstered, and the possessor of two very large breasts and a no less impressively proportioned behind. She had wisely made use of her twin physical attributes in developing her quite individual golf swing, which was a thing of no little power, 'All buttocks, bust and thrust' as one of the gentlemen members had once remarked, and perhaps because of it she boasted a handicap of sixteen, well above average for a lady golfer.

The three ladies were dressed in the pastel shades beloved of all lady golfers, and not a few male golfers, skirts for Mrs Rattray and Mrs Salinas, trousers for Mrs Quayle (who liked to keep her legs covered up whenever possible due to the triple afflictions of cellulite, varicose veins and vanity), whilst each had chosen different styles of headgear for the occasion; Mrs Quayle sporting a red and white striped baseball cap, Mrs Rattray a yellow sun visor, whilst Mrs Salinas had plumped for a flower-patterned floppy sun hat. Each of the ladies carried a folding chair in one hand and a shopping bag in the other. As they ambled slowly along the side of the second fairway it looked for all the world as though they were setting out on a summer picnic, which indeed they were, as all three of them viewed their measuring duties in the Nearest the Pin competition as a very poor second to feasting later on their packed lunch of Mrs Rattray’s special cucumber and smoked salmon sandwiches, Mrs Quayle’s delicious homemade quiche and Mrs Salinas’s fairy cakes. Washed down with Darjeeling tea from Mrs Quayle’s flask. Mrs Salinas’s flask carried morning coffee for the ladies, Mrs Rattray’s a refreshing iced fruit cup. On the way to their destination the ladies chatted and chattered.

“
Well I don't think you can beat Marks and Spencers for curtains,” said Mrs Quayle.

“
Debenhams are very good,” offered Mrs Rattray.

“
Oh Debenhams are excellent,” agreed Mrs Salinas. “I bought my dining room curtains from Debenhams.”

“
The ones with the plates on?” asked Mrs Quayle.

“
No, that's my kitchen curtains. They were from Littlewoods. No, my Debenhams curtains have teapots on them.”

“
But of course they do!”