Up ahead of them Arbuthnott, Chapman and Bagley had reached the first green, but not of course by the same route, as is almost always the case with the average club golf threesome. Credit must be given to Arbuthnott for getting there in the regulation two strokes, whilst both Chapman and Bagley had arrived there in the non-regulation, though more regular, three strokes. On arriving at the green, and now well out of Mr Captain’s hearing, Chapman returned to the topic they had been discussing when they’d last been together on leaving the tee some ten minutes previously. “It's Captain's Day for God's sake,” he railed. “Women have no right to be on the course at all on Captain’s Day, let alone be entrusted with the measuring.” He shook his head, bewildered. “I don't know, they put up a notice saying they don't want you to swear and then they allow women on the course at the same time as men and give you the best bloody reason in the world for swearing!”
“
We can take it you won't be volunteering to do the measuring on Lady Captain's Day then, can we Gerry?” said Bagley.
“
Only if it's for a wooden overcoat for one of them. Then I’d be there with my tape measure and a choice of coffins at the drop of a hat, a sarcophagus if they want one.”
“
Because they’ll probably be expecting the gentlemen to reciprocate.”
“
Well they can expect all they want as far as I’m concerned,” said Chapman, dismissing the whole sorry business from his mind and turning his attention to the more important matter of the forty feet left to right downhill putt he was faced with to save his par.
Frank Galloway, Mike Hanson and Richard Irwin had just left the locker room and were about to make their way to the first tee when Fidler hove into view, hurrying in the direction of the pro’s shop. Hanson stopped to greet him. “George! Glad I bumped into you.”
Fidler stopped and glared at him, still boiling with rage from his contretemps with Dawson and Elwes. “What?” he growled.
“
The thing is my sister has bought me a dozen golf balls for my birthday and they're Top Flight fours; and you always play Top Flight fours don't you, so I was wondering if we….”
Hanson didn't get any further as without warning Fidler grabbed hold of the front of his sweater and pulled the much shorter man up onto his tiptoes. “Are you in on this with those two pillocks back there?”
“
Wh…what two pillocks back where?” spluttered Hanson, struggling in a vain effort to release himself from Fidler's grip.
“
Fucking Dawson and fucking Elwes.”
“
Careful George, Mr Captain might hear you,” warned Galloway, nodding towards the first tee only some fifty yards distant.
“
Fuck Mr Captain,” said Fidler, having in the meantime made the decision that if he was to be hauled before the General Committee on a charge of swearing he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. He tightened his grip on the struggling Hanson then thrust his face closer until their noses were almost touching, a position that did little to endear itself to Hanson as Fidler's nose had a dewdrop on the end of it which he feared might drop off and land on the new pink and grey diamond-pattern lambswool Pringle sweater Tobin had just sold him. “Well?” said Fidler.
“
No. No of course not,” bleated Hanson. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
Fidler knew he couldn't prove anything, so despite his suspicions he released his grip on Hanson, pushed him away and stalked off in the direction of the pro's shop, not trusting himself to say another word on the subject.
“
What on earth’s got into George?” said Galloway, with a bemused shake of his head.
“
Golf would be a much more enjoyable game if women had their own course,” said Chapman, marking his golf ball where it had come to rest
four feet short of the hole, following his approach putt.
“
They have at Formby,” said Arbuthnott.
“
Have they really?” said Bagley, surprised. “A golf course
all of their own?”
“
Yes. I played there once on a day out with my company’s golf society. The ladies' course is in the middle, completely encircled by the gents' course. When the gents play it’s like Red Indians encircling a wagon train.”
“
Do they shoot arrows at them?” asked Chapman.
“
I don't think they've thought of that one yet.”
“
I would,” said Chapman, wistfully. “Poison-tipped ones.”
“
I don’t doubt it for one moment, Gerry,” said Bagley. “And throw the odd tomahawk as well no doubt.”
When Fidler entered the pro's shop Tobin was immediately on his mettle.
“
Good morning Mr Fidler. Lovely morning. Half a dozen Top Flight fours is it?”
Fidler’s eyes narrowed. Could the pro be in on the conspiracy too? He wouldn’t put it past him. However, unable to prove anything, he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “No. Half a dozen Pinnacles.”
Tobin expressed surprise. “Pinnacles? But you always play Top Flight fours, Mr Fidler.”
Fidler's temper, already on a very short rein, snapped again. “Well I'm not playing them today! So half a dozen fucking Pinnacles, and quick about it!”
“
Yes. At once. Right away, Mr Fidler.”
“
I mean they just trivialise golf, women,” Chapman went on. “What’s the name of that competition they have?” He remembered it. “‘Hidden Holes’. Have you ever heard of anything so stupid? You play all eighteen holes but only nine of them count. And you don’t know which nine they are until it’s all over. I mean what sort of a competition is that? You could have nine birdies and finish last.”
“
You obviously haven’t taken the psychology of ladies’ golf on board, Gerry,” said Bagley.
“
What?”
“
Well it has precious little to do with the best player on the day winning. Ladies' golf is more to do with ensuring that over the course of the season as many different ladies win as possible. That’s why they have lots of the type of competitions that diminish the skill factor. Flag. Three Clubs. Texas Scramble. Anything that will introduce an element of luck into the proceedings, so that even an absolute duffer at the game has some sort of a chance of winning.” He chuckled as he recalled the occasion. “Someone… Irwin I think it was…. once suggested to them in all seriousness a new kind of competition they might try. ‘Seventh Heaven’, he called it.”
“
Seventh Heaven?”
“
Yes, he told them it would work exactly the same as a normal medal competition except that the winner would be the lady who hits the green with her tee shot on the seventh hole, and during the walk to the green her period stops. Apparently they weren’t interested.”
It took only a moment for Chapman to come up with a rational reason why the suggested competition had failed to find favour with the ladies. “That’s because if you had to still be having periods in order to enter ninety per cent of our lady members wouldn’t qualify.”
“
Good point, never thought of that,” said Bagley, then turned his attention to matters more important than ladies’ golf, namely his putt, a tricky ten footer. After carefully lining it up he struck the putt. The ball, after narrowly missing the hole, came to rest a foot beyond. Bagley tapped it into the cup for a one over par five, a net par with his stroke.
Next to putt was Chapman. He had already looked at his putt from all angles and now placed the head of his putter behind the ball and prepared to putt, confident he would hole it.
“
Some of the ladies are quite nice,” said Arbuthnott, suddenly thinking of a reason for this assertion.
Chapman had a healthy dislike of lady golfers, or an unhealthy dislike, depending on your point of view, so even though he was psyched up to make his putt he could not let Arbuthnott’s ridiculous contention go unchallenged. He straightened up from the Jack Nicklaus-inspired crouch he adopted as his putting style. “What?”
“
The lady golfers. Some of them are quite nice.”
“
There is no such thing as a nice lady golfer, Arby,” said Chapman with a conviction that brooked no argument. “It is a contradiction in terms.”
“
Mrs Stevens is nice,” insisted Arbuthnott.
“
Oh I agree with you there Arby,” said Bagley, enthusiastically. “All the way.”
Arbuthnott's claim was beyond dispute. Gloria Stevens was indeed very nice. Unless the occasion demanded otherwise, such as a funeral or a remembrance service, she always had a smile on her face, and was never less than pleasant with anyone who should cross her path. Quite well-to-do, she was generosity personified, with both her time and her money. Should any of the golf club members be taking up a collection for charity they could be sure of receiving a large donation on approaching Gloria Stevens, if she wasn't already collecting for that charity herself, which she very probably was. She did the weekly shopping for bedridden pensioners. Gave people a lift to hospital if they had no transport of their own. Drove five times a week for the Meals on Wheels Service, providing her own transport and paying for the petrol. Did two mornings a week behind the counter of the local Age Concern charity shop. Took underprivileged children on outings, entirely at her own expense. Helped out as an emergency lollipop lady when required, come rain or come shine. And she was a Samaritan. Her generosity and goodness of spirit, although legion, were surpassed by her beauty. Gloria Stevens was absolutely drop dead gorgeous. Without any doubt not only the most beautiful woman who had ever aspired to membership of the ladies’ section of Sunnymere Golf Club, but the most beautiful thirty five-year-old woman that any of the members had ever seen, or hoped to see, this side of the silver screen. And with a body to die for. Well over half the male membership lusted after her, as did all nine of the club’s lesbians, and she was the cause of the death, by masturbation, of the oldest life member.
“
Well I don't think she's nice,” said Chapman.
“
Name me one thing about her that isn’t nice?” challenged Arbuthnott.
“
She plays golf,” said Chapman.
On arriving at the first tee Galloway, Hanson and Irwin exchanged 'Good mornings' with Mr Captain, Galloway adding, “Pleasant sort of day for it.”
“
Brilliant, isn't it. Quite brilliant. Now don't forget the Nearest the Pin Competition at the thirteenth,” said Mr Captain, then added, pointedly to Irwin. “Three of the ladies will be doing the measuring.”
This was tantamount to waving a red rag at a bull as when it came to the subject of lady golfers Chapman was one of the fairer sex’s staunchest supporters when compared to Irwin. There is little doubt that had there been such an organisation as the Male Chauvinist Pigs Society Irwin would have been one of their leading lights, especially if they had installed him as chairman of the Hang, Draw and Quarter all Lady Golfers Section. Now, having just received the news that ladies would be blighting the course with their presence during a gentlemen’s competition Irwin’s ruddy face quickly became even more red than usual. “The ladies did you say?” he spat out. “The ladies?”
Mr Captain was well aware of Irwin's opinion of lady golfers, and neither cared for the man nor his opinions, so it gave him no small pleasure to confirm what he had just said, and with relish. “Yes. The ladies, Richard.”
Irwin scowled and turned away, not trusting himself to say anything further. Mr Captain could trust himself however. “And you can pull your face as much as you like. But the ladies are a very important part of this golf club.”
“
Especially when you're married to the one who makes the most noise,” retorted Irwin, under his breath.
Mr Captain's ears pricked. “What was that? What was that you said Richard?”
“
Forget it,” said Irwin, and turned his attention to the watching Dawson and Elwes. “What's the hold up?”
“
Fidler had to go back for some balls,” explained Elwes. “I suppose we’d better let you through.”
Up ahead on the first green Arbuthnott shaped up to his putt. It wasn't an easy putt, twenty five feet or thereabouts with quite a lot of right to left borrow for the last three feet, but a putt he really fancied nevertheless.
Arbuthnott changed his putting action almost as often as he changed his socks. On average he dropped on the perfect method about once a month, only for it to become yet another imperfect method a few days later. He had tried every putting grip known to man and several known only to himself, every putting stroke from low and slow to a quick firm rap, and had executed each of the strokes with seventeen different putters, many of which he had snapped in frustration when they had let him down at a critical juncture. At the moment however he was at a stage where he had once again found the perfect method and it hadn’t yet turned into another imperfect method and this, coupled with the new revolutionary titanium plated hickory shafted blade putter Tobin had recently sold him filled him with confidence as he settled over the putt.
After the obligatory two practice putts he swung the putter head slowly back and smoothly through the ball. It kept towards its intended route, took the borrow perfectly and disappeared into the cup with a satisfying rattle. Arbuthnott punched the air. “A birdie!” He turned in triumph to his playing partners. “I told you it was going to be my day, didn't I!”
Even though Tobin had committed to memory the preferences in golfing equipment of every golfer in the club he had taken the precaution of backing up this information by feeding it all into his computer. He now typed in the name George Fidler, pressed the enter key, and almost immediately Fidler's details flashed up on the screen. 'Fidler, George. Sweaters, Glenmuir, 40 chest. Trousers, Nike, 36 waist, 34 inside leg. Golf balls, Top Flight four. Shoes, Reebok, size 10.'