Authors: Alan MacDonald
Smash! (6 page)
Bertie watched the golf ball roll across the lawn and into the small black cup.
WHIRR-CLICK-PLOCK!
It spat it out.
“Wow!” cried Bertie. “Can I have a go?”
Dad shook his head. “Maybe another time,” he said. In Bertie’s hands a golf
club was a dangerous weapon.
“Please,” begged Bertie. “Just one little go!”
Dad sighed. “All right, but for goodness’ sake take it easy.”
Bertie gripped the club and took careful aim.
“Gently,” warned Dad.
Bertie swung the golf club.
THWUCK!
The ball flew like a missile and cannoned off the garden wall.
“ARGH!” Dad ducked as it zoomed past his head and buried itself in the hedge.
“HA, HA! Good shot, Bertie!” Bertie looked round to see Royston Rich getting out of his dad’s sports car. Royston got on Bertie’s nerves. His head
was so big you’d think his dad would need a larger car.
“What do
you
want?” asked Bertie.
“Oh, we were just passing by,” said Royston. “Actually we’ve been playing at Dad’s golf club!”
Mr Rich put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’m a member at Pudsley Hills,” he said. “On the committee, in fact.”
Dad rolled his eyes. “You don’t say.”
“Dad’s
awesome
at golf,” bragged Royston. “He’s won tons of trophies.”
Mr Rich chuckled. “I am pretty good, though I say so myself.” He turned to Dad. “I didn’t know you played, old man.”
“Oh yes,” said Dad. “I’m not bad – though I say so myself.”
“Really?” Mr Rich smiled, smoothing his moustache. “Well, we should have a game sometime.”
“Anytime you like,” said Dad.
“Super. Next Sunday then?”
“You’re on.”
Bertie couldn’t believe his ears. A golf match against Mr Rich – surely that was asking for trouble? Still, he didn’t want to miss all the fun.
“Can I come?” he begged.
“Why not?” said Mr Rich. “The boys can act as our caddies.”
“Fine by me,” said Dad.
“Me too,” said Bertie, wondering what
a caddy could be.
Mr Rich strolled back to his car. “By the way, a little tip,” he said to Dad. “Don’t lift your head when you play the ball.”
“See you Bertie! You are
so
going to lose,” sneered Royston, sticking out his tongue.
“Get lost, goofy!” said Bertie.
Mr Rich drove off with a screech of tyres.
Bertie frowned at his dad. “I thought you hated him?” he said.
“Maurice Rich? Can’t stand the man,” said Dad.
“So why play golf with him?”
“To beat him, of course,” said Dad. “It’s time I taught that snooty show-off a lesson.”
Over supper Bertie mentioned who they’d run into that morning.
“Maurice Rich?” groaned Mum. “What did he want?”
“Nothing,” said Dad.
“He wants to play Dad at golf,” said Bertie.
Suzy stopped eating. Mum narrowed
her eyes.
“You’re not serious?” she said.
Dad shrugged. “It’s only a game.”
“Oh yes!” scoffed Suzy. “That’s what you said last time!”
Bertie hadn’t forgotten last time. On Sports Day both dads had joined in the Parent-Child race. It had ended in an ugly brawl.
“He challenged me,” said Dad. “You know what a pompous twerp he is!”
“So ignore him,” said Mum. “Honestly, you’re worse than a pair of kids.”
“I could hardly say no. He saw me practising,” argued Dad.
“For the first time in ages,” said Mum. “Your clubs have probably gone rusty.”
Bertie wiped his nose. “I’m good at golf,” he said.
“You’ve never played,” said Suzy.
“I have! On holiday, remember?”
Suzy rolled her eyes. “That was crazy golf, dumbo.”
“It’s still golf,” said Bertie. “And actually it’s a lot harder ’cos there’s castles and stuff in the way.”
Dad shook his head. “This is
real
golf, Bertie, on a proper golf course. And if
you’re my caddy, you’ll have to behave.”
Suzy giggled. “You’re taking Bertie?”
“I’d be more use than you,” said Bertie. “Anyway, what
is
a caddy?”
“It’s a sort of helper,” explained Dad. “You carry my golf bag and hand me a club when I need one.”
Bertie frowned. “Can’t I do potting?”
“It’s called putting,” sighed Dad. “And no, you can’t. Your job is to do what I tell you and not get in the way.”
Bertie pushed some peas round his plate. What was the point of going if he wasn’t allowed to
do
anything? He wanted to beat the Riches just as much as Dad – after all, he’d be the one to suffer if they lost. Royston would brag about it for months.
Bertie stared out of the window as they pulled into the car park. Royston and his dad were waiting by the clubhouse, wearing matching outfits – red jumpers, yellow trousers and white golf caps. Bertie thought they looked like two giant sticks of rock.
Mr Rich’s golf bag was almost as big
as him and stuffed with shiny new clubs. Beside it, Dad’s bag looked like it came from a charity shop.
“Morning!” said Mr Rich. “How about a little bet to make this interesting? Twenty pounds?”
“Make it thirty,” said Dad.
Mr Rich chuckled. “Suits me, if you want to lose your money.”
Thirty pounds? Bertie’s mouth hung open. That was practically a year’s pocket money! He hoped Dad knew what he was doing.
Mr Rich put his bag in the back of a golf buggy and climbed in beside Royston. “See you at the first hole!” he called.
Dad nodded. “Where’d you get the buggy?”
“Oh, didn’t I say, old man? We took the last one,” grinned Mr Rich. “Never mind, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the walk!” He
threw them a wave and drove off.
“It’s not fair!” grumbled Bertie. “Why do
they
get a buggy and not us?”
“It’s healthier to walk,” snapped Dad. “Bring the trolley.”
Bertie dragged the trolley behind him. It had one squeaky wheel. He kept tipping it too far and spilling golf clubs everywhere.
Royston and Mr Rich were waiting for them at the first hole. Bertie stared.
“Where’s the golf course?” he said.
“This is it,” said Dad.
“But it’s just grass and trees! I can’t even see the hole!” moaned Bertie.
Dad pointed to a tiny red flag in the distance.
“That’s
miles
away!” cried Bertie. “It’ll take forever!”
Mr Rich cleared his throat. “Are we playing or not?” he said.
“Sorry,” said Dad. “Go ahead.”
Mr Rich stood over his ball. He swung back his club.
PLINK!
The ball flew straight down the middle of the fairway.
Dad was next. He placed his ball,
stood over it and waggled the club. Then he swished the air a few times.
“Aren’t you meant to hit it?” asked Bertie.
Dad glared. “I’m
going to
if you’ll shut up.”
PLUNK!
The ball swerved left and vanished into a thick clump of trees.
“Oh, bad luck, old man!” smirked Mr Rich. Bertie shot his dad a look of disgust. The least he could do was hit the ball straight.
Royston climbed into the golf buggy beside his dad.
“See you up at the green – if you ever get there!” he sniggered.
By the time they reached the green, Bertie’s legs were aching. The Riches were waiting for them.
Mr Rich putted his ball and watched it go in.
“We win the hole!” whooped Royston.
Dad filled in the score-card.
“Come on,” he said to Bertie. “And stop dropping all the clubs.”
“It’s not
my
fault, it’s this stupid trolley,” grumbled Bertie. “If we had a buggy I wouldn’t have to drag it everywhere.”
