Captain's Day (8 page)

“
But then Debenhams don't sell food, do they,” observed Mrs Rattray. “So if you're shopping for food
and
curtains you're better off going to Marks, as you can get both at the same time. Whereas if you go to Debenhams you can't do that.”

“
Or Primark,” said Mrs Quayle.

“
Or Primark,” agreed Mrs Rattray.

Now, emerging from behind a small hillock on the edge of the fairway, Abbott, running as though his very life depended on it, which may well have been the case, pursued some thirty yards behind by Dean Shawcross, came into view heading in the direction of the clubhouse and beyond it the exit from the course. The spectacle of a fat red-faced pensioner being chased by a completely naked eighteen-year-old is a sight not often seen on a golf course, but far from stopping the ladies in their tracks they didn't even break stride.

“
Good morning, gentlemen,” Mrs Salinas trilled, before continuing with more important matters. “British Home Stores are quite good for curtains, too,” she opined, switching in a trice the whole of her attention back to Mrs Quayle and Mrs Rattray and the soft furnishings retail industry.

“
And light fittings,” said Mrs Quayle, whose attention had never left the soft furnishings retail industry, despite seeing a young man in full frontal mode.

“
Oh yes, their light fittings are excellent,” agreed Mrs Rattray. “They’re the absolute best for light fittings, I got my uplighter from British Home Stores. They do a very tasty prawn sandwich too, excellent mayonnaise.”

Mr Captain was making his way back to the first tee after having paid a visit to the beer tent. Drinks wouldn't be served until the first threesome of Arbuthnott, Bagley and Chapman arrived there after completing the ninth hole, in around an hour's time, but he had wanted to assure himself that everything there was shipshape and Bristol fashion. After all, it would be the venue where he would be entertaining no less a personage than His Worshipful the Lord Mayor of Sunnymere, who was scheduled to arrive at eleven twenty, and he didn’t want to risk anything being less than perfect for the occasion. If Captain's Day was the highlight
of Mr Captain's year of office then the Mayoral visit would be the
piece de resistance
of his Captain's Day.

There had never before been a Mayoral visit in the entire one hundred and ten year history of Sunnymere Golf Club. Mr Captain had checked. There had been members of the golf club who had been Lord Mayor, indeed one of them had been Lord Mayor at the same time as he had been captain, but that was an altogether different thing, so the first ever Mayoral visit would be a huge feather in his cap. His Worship would be paying only a flying visit, true, between opening the new council-funded skateboard & tattooing centre and closing the council-run old folks’ home due to lack of resources, but he would of course be returning in the evening to be guest of honour at the dinner and dance.

Mr Captain had his wife to thank for coming up with the idea. Millicent was a collector of miniature china figurines, and as such was a regular customer of China Times, a gift shop in the town which sold delicate porcelain at indelicate prices. The shop was owned and run by Edna Burroughs, the wife of the current Lord Mayor. Both Millicent and Edna were members of the local bridge circle and over the years had become, if not close friends, then friendly acquaintances. So much so that when Mr Captain had expressed a desire for something that would make his Captain's Day special, something out of the ordinary that would make it stand out from other Captain's Days, Millicent had thought immediately of her connection with the wife of the Lord Mayor, and through her with the Lord Mayor himself. Within twenty four hours, which was as long as it took for Millicent to purchase five hundred pounds worth of porcelain from China Times and for news of her purchase to reach the ears of the Lord Mayor via his wife, the Mayoral visit had been arranged. Mr Captain had been doubly pleased. Not only would the visit of the Lord Mayor bring him much esteem, but it could very well lead to he himself becoming Lord Mayor one day, an ambition he had been harbouring for quite some time.

To become Lord Mayor would of course first necessitate his being voted onto the local town council, which until now had been the stumbling block in the road to his ambitions. So far as Mr Captain could see there were two ways which would ensure that enough of the electorate voted for you to give you a seat on the town council; by becoming a popular member of the community through being a do-gooder who worked hard for those people less fortunate than himself, and who championed the causes of the underdog; or by being recognised as a natural leader of men.

Mr Captain knew that if he were to remain true to his beliefs he could never become a councillor by the former method. He didn't believe in putting himself out for others, quite the opposite, he had always held the opinion that if you worked hard for people less fortunate than yourself they would simply take advantage of you, when what they should be doing is asking themselves why they were less fortunate than you in the first place and damn well doing something about it. As for championing the underdog, let the underdog get up off his idle backside and champion himself if he wanted to make something of himself. However, now that he was captain of the local golf club, and especially now it would be seen by all and sundry that he was a friend of the present Lord Mayor, a man with whom he happened to share the same political leanings, there was every chance he might be recognised as a natural leader of men.

It certainly wouldn't be for want of trying; that much was for sure. The local newspaper had been informed of the occasion and had agreed to send along a reporter and photographer to cover the event, and the local radio station had promised to send someone along to report on the day’s proceedings. After that it would simply be a matter of getting the Lord Mayor to endorse his nomination for the next local elections, and he would be on his way.

Having hit their drives at the par four fourth, Elwes and Dawson were standing at the side of the tee waiting for Fidler to tee off.

“
Will you be calling in at the nineteenth for a couple later?” asked Elwes of Dawson.

“
Does the Pope shit in the woods?” said Dawson.

“
Quiet!” barked Fidler. “On the tee!”

Dawson and Elwes stopped talking, respecting their playing partner’s right to total silence while he was making his shot. Fidler hit his drive and anxiously watched the flight of his ball. His tee shot at the previous hole had been much better, more like one of his usual drives, finding the fairway for the first time that day, but this time his drive was just as wild as the first two had been. On this occasion however his ball didn't go out of bounds, but only because a copse of tall trees bordering the fairway stopped it from doing so. The ball ricocheted from tree to tree half a dozen times, much like a ball in a pinball machine. Whenever this happens - as it often does in club golf - and if you are in luck, the last ricochet can deposit the ball on the fairway. Fidler was not in luck and his ball came to rest somewhere, he knew not where, deep in the trees. Dawson and Elwes cringed as they waited for the expected outburst from Fidler. They didn’t have long to wait.

“
This is you two, all this,” Fidler raged. “This is your doing. I always hit everything dead straight when I play Top Flight fours!”

“
Yes, I'm hitting Top Flight fours pretty straight myself,” said Elwes agreeably, then added, “But then of course I usually am fairly straight.”

“
I'd
be fairly fucking straight if I was playing Top Flight fours,” Fidler ranted.

“
Oh come on George, you can't blame your wild hitting on the type of ball you’re using,” scoffed Dawson.

“
It is the bloody ball! It is! I'm as straight as a die with Top Flight fours.”

Elwes goaded Fidler further. “It's a bad workman who blames his tools.”

“
It's you two tools who I'm blaming. As well as the bloody ball.”
“You’d better play a provisional,” Elwes advised. He took a ball from his golf bag. “Here, try one of my Top Flight fours since you hit them so straight.” He produced a felt tip pen. “I'll mark it so it can't get mixed up with my Top Flight four.”

“
There's no chance of that happening Tony,” said Dawson, as adept at stirring as was Elwes. “Your ball will be the one on the fairway.”

Fidler, just about managing to stop himself rising to the bait, accepted the marked ball from Elwes. After taking a few seconds to compose himself, and taking great care in taking up his stance and lining himself up with the intended target, he finally settled over the ball. He was just about to start taking the club back when the helicopter suddenly appeared as if from nowhere, crossing the fairway some hundred yards ahead, at a height of about thirty feet. Fidler, having been warned by Mr Captain about the helicopter, was not surprised by its appearance, and although annoyed, simply stood back and watched it until it had disappeared from view, then went through the whole setting up procedure again, if anything even more meticulously than before. Then he drove off. This time the ball hit the fairway, plumb centre. Unfortunately, due to a violent hook, it wasn't the fairway of the hole he was playing but the fairway of the eleventh hole, which ran parallel to the fourth.

“
Shit!” said Fidler.

“
Maybe you could get the helicopter pilot to spot for you?” suggested Elwes.

Fidler fixed him. “And maybe you could keep your fucking great trap of a mouth shut.”

Mr Captain arrived back at the first tee just in time to welcome the next three ball of Trevor Armitage, Gerard Stock and George Grover.

“
How's it all going then, Mr Captain?” said Grover. “Your Captain's Day?”

“
Oh excellent, George. Quite excellent. All I could have hoped for. I had to put Richard Irwin in his place about the ladies, but apart from that there has not been even a minor blip.”
No sooner had the words left Mr Captain’s mouth than the first minor blip arrived in the shape of Abbott. Quickly followed by a major blip in the shape of the naked Dean Shawcross. Fortunately for Abbott, with Dean by now almost upon him, his route off the golf course took him across the gravel path that led from the clubhouse to the first tee, and when Dean followed him onto the path the sharp gravel chippings dug into his feet and immediately brought him hopping to a stop.

In the meantime Abbott sped on. Dean saw there was nothing for it but to abandon the chase and contented himself with shaking a fist after Abbott and shouting, “Wait till I get my hands on you, I'll tear you apart you dirty old get!” Then he noticed Mr Captain and the others, who were staring at him, open-mouthed. He returned their stares with a hostile glare and said: “And who the hell do you lot think you are staring at?”

Mr Captain could scarcely believe his eyes. A naked man on the golf course? On Captain's Day? He was apoplectic, completely lost for words. Observing that Dean had turned and was about to start making his way back from whence he came he just about managed to find a few. “What...what is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“
Oh fuck off, Granddad,” said Dean, and started to depart the scene.

Mr Captain was outraged. “Come back here at once!” he called after him. “This instant. Do you hear me? This is private land. You are trespassing.”

Dean had obviously heard Mr Captain as he now put his hand behind his back, his fingers formed in a V-sign, a pictorial reiteration of his words of a moment ago, but continued on his way in silence and without pause.

“
I said come back here! “ Mr Captain turned to the others, his face getting redder and more outraged by the second. “Did you see that?” he said, still scarcely able to credit what he had just witnessed. “Did you see that….that lout?”

“
Yes,” said Grover. “A thoroughly bad show, Mr Captain. I hope it hasn't spoiled your day.”

“
It's spoiled my day,” said Armitage. “Did you see the dick on him?”

Grover grimaced. “I hope you're not going to start going on about dicks again, Trevor,” he said with a sigh. “You're always going on about the size of people's dicks.”

“
Who is?” said Armitage.

9.20 a.m.

G Stock (8)

G Grover (12)

T Armitage (14)

Jason Fearon needed money. The trouble was that to a boy of only thirteen years of age the opportunities for making money are severely limited. Running errands for neighbours brought in a little bit, but the sort of neighbours who needed errands running for them, the old and the infirm, usually had little money to spare to shell out for errands to be run for them, so any income he made from such ventures was never more than a trickle, whilst Jason's needs were more in the nature of a stream or small river.

Eventually he would be able to get a job as a paper boy or help out in a shop or washing up in a pub's kitchen or something, but you had to be fourteen before they let you do that. This restriction seemed grossly unfair to Jason as it seemed to him that the needs of a thirteen-year-old boy and a fourteen-year-old boy were more or less the same - new video games, CDs, football boots, mobile phone, I-Pod, whatever. He had his weekly pocket money of course, five pounds, plus two pounds he got from his nana for cleaning her downstairs windows every time she felt they needed doing, which wasn’t often enough as far as Jason was concerned, but five pounds and the occasional two pounds went nowhere when you had a mobile to run. Shit, his text messages alone cost half of that! So he supplemented his income by finding lost golf balls and selling them to the professional at the golf club, who gave him fifty pence each for them, and who in turn sold them on for a pound each to the Sunnymere members for use as practice balls.