then, Joe? If Chris doesn't show?'
They were all regarding him expectantly.
'Love to,' said Joe. 'Only I haven't brought my gear.'
His long experience of trying to get out of Aunt Mirabelle's arrangements, which usually involved meeting homely spinsters who'd reached the age where hope's allegedly eternal springs were drying to a trickle, should have taught Mm that any excuse that wasn't rock solid was tissue paper to a determined arranger.
'No problem. Young Chip will fit you up in two minutes in the pro's shop.'
The rock-solid excuse produced after the sandy-based one has collapsed rarely sounds totally convincing, but Joe didn't let such a consideration bother him. He hesitated only to decide between the urgent hospital appointment to discover if his recently diagnosed brain tumor was operable and the need to meet his wife and seven children who were arriving at Heathrow from Barbados mid afternoon.
Then over Latimer's shoulder he saw the air shimmer as if at the flutter of an angel's wings and a moment later salvation appeared in the form of a YFG.
'That's most kind of you,' he said. 'I'd really love to play with you guys…'
He paused to enjoy the shadow of surprise which ran across each of their faces, then he said, 'But, hey, it will have to be some other time. Sorry. Here's Chris now. Thanks for your hospitality.'
He stood up as Porphyry reached the table.
'Joe,' he said. 'So sorry I'm late.'
'No problem,' said Joe. 'Your friends have been making me really welcome.' 'That's kind of them. We're a welcoming club. Catch you later, Tom.' 'Why don't you and Joe join us?' said Latimer pleasantly. 'Thanks, but no. We're a bit pressed for time and I wanted to show Joe round.' 'Well, I hope you like what you see, Joe. And don't forget. You've promised us a game so we can see your style.' Joe gave him the big grin. 'No problem, Tom,' he said. 'That's one promise I definitely won't forget.' Meaning, if ever I come here again which at this moment don't feel likely, I'm going to buy me a plaster cast from the Plastic Poo Joke Shop and wrap it round my leg!
7
A Fortunate Lie
As they descended the flight of stairs that led down from the terrace onto the course, Christian Porphyry apologized again for his lateness, adding, 'Still, you seemed to be managing very well on your own.'
'Yeah,' said Joe negligently. 'Undercover work hones you up for pretty well every extremity, even sitting around drinking iced coffee on a hot day. Seemed nice guys, your three friends.'
'The Bermuda Triangle?' Porphyry laughed. 'Yes, they're very good company.'
'So why do you call them that then?'
'Well, Colin runs Rowe Estates, you've probably seen their boards. And Arthur's a lawyer, while Tom is the boss of Latimer Trust, financial services and investment, that sort of thing. So, property, finance and the law-some members say if they suck you in, when you come out the other side, you don't know which way's up or down! Just a club joke. Means nothing.'
They were walking along the side of a fairway. A buggy came toward them, pulling a small trailer. The driver brought it to a halt and got out.
'I'd like a word, Mr. Porphyry,' he said.
He was a small red-headed man with a face so savagely assaulted by the sun that it looked like a baked potato just plucked from the embers. He spoke with the kind of Scottish accent that Joe could only localize as more Glasgow Rangers than Edinburgh Festival.
'What is it, Davie?'
'It's about a replacement for Steve Waring. It's getting urgent.'
'He still hasn't shown up then?'
'No, he hasna, and it means the rest of us are working like blacks to keep the course in nick.'
Porphyry shook his head doubtfully. Maybe, thought Joe, he's going to tell the guy that anyone who talks like he does should go easy on the racism. But all the YFG said was, 'It's really Mr. Rowe you should be talking to, Davie. He's chairman of the Greens Committee.'
'Aye, I know and I've tried that, but he says that when it came up, you said let's wait a wee while longer to see if Steve shows up.'
'Did I? Yes, I believe I did. I mean, it's only been… how long?'
'A week.'
'There you are then. Hardly any time. I know this job means a lot to Steve, and you yourself say he's been a good worker. Probably something's come up that he had to sort out, and he'll show up again any time now. I'd just hate for him to come back and find his job had gone.'
'It's a credit to your hairt, Mr. Porphyry,' said Davie with only a small amount of discernible irony. 'But I called round at his digs last night and there's been no sign of him or word from him since last week. Landlady says he owes a month's back rent. I reckon he's done a runner and we won't be seeing hide nor hair of him this side of Christmas. We need another pair of hands now, else things will start slipping.' 'All right, Davie. I understand. I'll have a word with Mr. Rowe.' The man got back in his buggy and drove on. 'Head greenkeeper,' said Porphyry. 'Bit rough- edged, but the salt of the earth.' Which was a good thing to have with a baked potato, thought Joe. 'Davie what?' he asked. 'Well, Davie actually. David Davie. Never sure whether it's his first or second name I'm using. Still, doesn't seem to trouble him.' 'And is he any part of your trouble?' asked Joe, keen to get down to cases. 'On no. Not at all. Definitely not.' As if provoked by the question, Porphyry now strode forward at a pace that in Joe's case came close to a trot. It was very hot and though there were plenty of trees to their right, unfortunately the sun was in the wrong quarter of the sky to afford them any shade. Suddenly Porphyry came to a halt. 'Stand still, Joe,' he commanded. Though only too pleased to obey, Joe's natural curiosity still made him gasp, 'What for?' 'Chaps on the tee. Best be careful.' Joe followed the YFG's gaze back down the fairway. Some figures had appeared at a distance so great he had to screw up his eyes to work out there were four of them.
'You think those guys could reach us here?' he asked doubtingly.
'Probably not, but what I meant was, we don't want to disturb their concentration by movement. And best keep your voice down too.'
'My voice? You're joking, yeah? I'd need a bullhorn before they could hear me!'
Porphyry smiled and said, or rather whispered, 'Normally, yes, Joe. But golf sensitizes the hearing remarkably. You know the great Wodehouse, of course?'
'Woodhouse? Played for the Posh and Grimsby then went into the fight game?' hazarded Joe.
'Don't recollect that, though he was a man of great and varied talent. In particular he loved his golf and of course he wrote some of the funniest books in the language. In one of them he talks about a golfer so sensitive, he could be put off his stroke by the roaring of butterflies in the adjacent meadow.'
The YFG chuckled as he spoke, but more as if appreciating a point well made than simply laughing at a bit of daftness. Joe was getting the impression that, apart from being stellar rich, you also needed a sense of humor from outer space to qualify for the Hoo. What was it the Bermuda Triangle had found so funny? Oh yes, the notion of him giving them something called gotchas.
Reckoning he wasn't going to get much further with roaring butterflies, he asked, 'What's a gotcha?'
'In golf, you mean?'
'Yeah. In golf.'
'Well, it has no official standing, you understand? Though I have known occasions when some of the chaps have had a couple too many before a game and have actually put it into practice.'
Did this guy know how to give a straight answer?
'But what is it?' demanded Joe.
'It means if, say, you agreed to have three gotchas each at the start of the game, on three occasions as your opponent was playing his shot you would be entitled to reach between his legs from behind, seize his testicles and cry Gotcha! I think we can move on now, Joe.'
