The Roar of the Butterflies

‘Could all do with a bit of air,’ said Joe, checking it out. The kid was right.

‘Wouldn’t be Mr Sixsmith by any chance, would it, sir?’

‘That’s me, yeah.’

‘Mr Porphyry mentioned you might be coming,’ said the youth. ‘I’m Chip Harvey, assistant pro.’

He held out his hand. Joe shook it. The kid seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

‘First time here, is it, sir?’ he said. ‘I hope you like the look of us. It’s a lovely course. It would make a marvellous championship venue, but as I’m sure you know if you’re looking to join us, the membership here doesn’t care for that sort of public exposure. Let me show you to the clubhouse.’

If you’re looking to join us, thought Joe. Said without the slightest hint of some hope! In the light of morning, the doubts sown by Merv had withered considerably. Porphyry had struck him as straight and he was used to backing his own judgement. However daft the membership story might play to outsiders, what was the guy supposed to say? That he was bringing a PI to lunch with a view to casing the joint!

Really he would have preferred to hang around the car park till Porphyry appeared, but that would have looked a bit odd, so he let himself be guided through the shrubbery.

Close up, the clubhouse had even more of the feel of a stately home about it. French windows opened on to a long terrace spotted with parosoled tables. No plastic DIY superstore stuff these, but the kind of old-fashioned, twisty wrought-iron jobs you’d look to find in the gardens of folk who didn’t have to buy their own furniture. Not that Joe spent much time among such people, but he was a great fan of heritage movies. Come to think of it, the scatter of people drinking coffee or long fruit drinks in elegant glasses could have been carefully arranged there by Messrs Merchant and Ivory. Of course these days, when class can be cloned as easy as sheep, anyone could buy the gear and walk the walk and talk the talk. But there’s always a pea under the mattress, and to Joe’s keen eye, where real kiss-my-ass class showed through was in the way your born-to-its sat easy. Folk like him either slumped or, at best, lolled. Somewhere towards the top of the heap you learned the art of reclining gracefully. Most of these folk here either had it, or were working very hard at getting it.

One end of the terrace overlooked a huge circle of lawn only slightly smaller than Kensington Gardens. From the numbered flag at its centre he deduced it was the eighteenth green. Green was the right word. It was so green it could have played for Ireland. Considering there’d been a hosepipe ban in the Luton area for a fortnight, reducing most gardens and public parks to dustbowls that would have made a dromedary cough, Joe couldn’t understand why everyone here wasn’t under arrest. And it wasn’t just the actual green. The undulating crescent of tree-lined fairway stretching into the distance didn’t look like it was dying of thirst either. Maybe here at Royal Hoo they had their own special cloud which sprinkled a little rain during the hours of darkness.

Chip Harvey sat him at a table and said, ‘This do you, sir?’

‘Yeah, this is fine,’ said Joe. ‘You don’t have Mr Porphyry’s – Chris’s – number, do you? I could give him a bell, see if there’s a hold up?’

He pulled out his mobile. The young man grimaced and said, ‘No can do, I’m afraid, sir. Use of mobiles is strictly forbidden on the course or in the clubhouse. Heavy fine even if it just rings! You’d need to go back to your car to use it, but I’m sure Mr Porphyry will be here soon. Relax, have a drink. The steward will be along in a minute. Enjoy your day, sir.’

Nice boy, thought Joe, taking in his surroundings. This was OK, this was the real deal. Comfy seat under a parasol, lovely view, four crisp new monkeys in his pocket, steward would be along in a moment, even a breath of what must be the only breeze in the whole county, what more could a man ask? Envy and resentment didn’t play a large part in Joe’s outlook. Social injustices and inequalities had to be personalized before they hit his indignation button. If as he sat here he saw another black, balding, middling aged, vertically challenged, slightly overweight, redundant lathe-operator being given the runaround because of all or any one of these conditions, he would have groaned regretfully, stood up, and taken sides with the guy. But long as these folk didn’t mind him, he certainly wasn’t going to mind them. He’d learned his Bible the hard way, meaning Aunt Mirabelle’s way, and that meant it stuck, especially her favourite bits, one of which was what Paul wrote to them Ephesians, whoever they were. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Well, that was OK for Paul and Rev Pot, and good luck to them. Let all them preachers and politicians and newspaper columnists and such sort out the principalities and powers. Joe was happy to restrict his wrestling to good old-fashioned flesh and blood.

Out of the corner of his eye, he observed that one of a trio of men sitting a couple of tables away had caught Chip Harvey’s attention as he passed and seemed to be questioning him closely. Oh shoot, thought Joe. Is good old-fashioned flesh and blood going to get to me before I can order a drink?

It looked like it. The man stood up. He was maybe forty, solidly built but mostly muscle, little flab. He was wearing a pale brown sports shirt and matching tailored shorts which made Joe glad he’d grounded the Technicolor parrots. His vigorous dark brown hair was rather becomingly tipped with grey and he had the kind of square open face which gets people buying double glazing or giving cash advances to jobbing builders. He was smiling but Joe didn’t let this lull his fears. Places he did most of his drinking in, if a guy came at you with intent to smash your face in, he usually had the decency to look like a guy whose intent this was. Here, he guessed, different conventions might apply.

But it seemed he was wrong.

‘Mr Sixsmith, I believe? I’m Tom Latimer, club vice-captain. Young Chip tells me you’re waiting for Chris Porphyry.’

‘That’s right,’ said Joe, taking the outstretched hand and returning the warm handshake. ‘Nice boy, that Chip.’

‘Yes, we have high hopes of him. Think he might make it on the tour. He’ll need backing, of course, but we’ve got big hearts as well as deep pockets here at the Hoo.’

This didn’t mean a lot to Joe, who in any case was preoccupied by the fact that the handshake had become a tow rope drawing him out of his seat as Latimer continued, ‘Wonder if you’d care to join us? Chris isn’t the best of timekeepers, I’m afraid. Always hits the first tee at a run!’

Unable to think of a good way to say, No, thanks, I’d rather sit here by myself, Joe found himself moving towards the other two men who were also brushing up the welcoming smiles.

One was less successful than the other. His name was Arthur Surtees, thirty something, his head close shaven presumably to hide the fact that he was bald anyway, and his deep sunken watchful eyes giving the lie to his wide stretched mouth, like a poorly put-together police photofit.

The other was Colin Rowe, in his fifties, grey-haired, with a lean intelligent face which would have looked well on a college professor. His smile was perfectly natural, nothing exaggerated about it, the kind of wryly sympathetic expression which would, Joe imagined, encourage an errant student to admit he hadn’t done his homework.

But why do I get the feeling these guys know exactly who I am? thought Joe. That was impossible. Had to be his own sense of being out of place talking.

The steward, wearing a linen jacket as white and crisp as a hoar-frost, appeared as Joe sat down. Thinking that maybe a pint of cold Guinness might strike a wrong note, Joe asked for coffee.

‘Hot or iced, sir?’ the steward enquired. He had a lovely voice, like an old-fashioned actor’s. You probably needed a public school education just to get a job keeping bar at places like Royal Hoo.

Joe hesitated. Cold coffee? You got that down at Dot’s Diner, you sent it back to be put in the microwave.

‘Iced, I think, Bert,’ said Latimer. ‘And the same again for the rest of us. Well, Joe – all right if I call you Joe? We don’t stand on ceremony here – how do you like the look of us so far?’

Joe had no natural talent to deceive, which could be a bit of a drawback in his chosen profession. He was working on it, but on the whole he made do in most situations by looking for straws of truth to get a firm hold of.

‘I’m impressed,’ he said. ‘Weather like this, it beats sitting in my office.’

‘We all know the feeling,’ said Surtees. ‘So where do you play, Joe?’

Why the shoot can’t folk make conversation without asking direct questions? Joe wondered, as he marshalled the few facts he knew about golf to ascertain if there was an answer like ‘left wing’ or ‘in goal’. Didn’t seem likely, so presumably they were into geography. Could tell them Luton Municipal Pitch’n’Putt and watch their faces, but that two hundred nestling against his left buttock was beginning to feel very much at home there.

He said, ‘I travel around a lot, so anywhere I can, really.’

‘And welcome wherever you go, I’m sure,’ said Latimer heartily.

A silence. With a bit of luck, thought Joe, it might turn into a siesta and stretch to fill the minutes till Porphyry appeared.

But luck wasn’t on offer.

‘So how’s your game, Joe?’ said Colin Rowe.

‘Well, you know what it’s like, up and down,’ said Joe.

Rowe laughed and said, ‘Part of its charm, eh? Pity they didn’t build its fluctuations into the handicap system. Doesn’t matter if I feel like crap, when I step on that first tee, I’m playing off 5. Arthur here’s a bandit 7. And Tom’s 9.’

‘On a good day with the wind behind me,’ said Latimer lightly. ‘So how about you, Joe?’

‘Sorry?’ said Joe.

‘Just wondering what your handicap was,’ said Latimer.

Joe found a dozen smart answers crowding his tongue. He guessed a couple of them might be floating around Latimer’s mind too. So don’t give him the satisfaction, just play it straight. Which sounded a lot easier than it was. That golf had a handicap system he knew, but how it worked he had no idea. The only other game he knew that used handicaps was polo, and that was only because it had come up on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Joe, who was quite keen to be a millionaire, had been trying to improve his general knowledge by making a note of all the correct answers till Beryl had screamed with laughter and said, ‘Joe, this stuff you’re trying to learn is exactly the stuff you don’t need to know, ’cos they’ve asked it already!’ But the polo question had stuck.

What is the best handicap a top-class polo player can have?

The four alternatives had been 0, 10, 24, 36.

The answer had been 10. Seemed that beginners started at 0 or even minus something, and 24 and 36 didn’t exist.

Which fitted very well here. Rowe had said he was 7 and Surtees was 5 while Latimer, the club vice-captain and therefore presumably one of its best players, was 9.

So play it safe.

‘Oh pretty low, you know,’ he said vaguely.