The Roar of the Butterflies

‘Pretty low? Come on, Joe, don’t be modest!’ said Surtees with just the hint of a sneer.

He’s trying to provoke me! thought Joe. Wants me to claim I’m a top gun, then he’ll look for a way to show me up. Well, hard luck, mate. One thing I’ve learned is if you have to lie, keep it in bounds of reason.

‘No, really,’ he said. ‘My handicap’s nothing. A big 0.’

In other words I’m a rank beginner. Put that in your pipe!

‘Scratch, eh? Thought as much,’ said Rowe. ‘Soon as I set eyes on you, I thought, there’s a scratch man if ever I saw one!’

Scratch man. Now that sounded really offensive, but Rowe didn’t say it in a particularly offensive way, and in any case a guy who was actually boasting when he said he was a lousy golfer didn’t ought to get hot and bothered when he was told that’s just what he looked like.

‘Yeah? Well, like the man said, what you see is what you get,’ said Joe pleasantly.

Rowe smiled but the other two were looking at him speculatively and he began to wonder if maybe Porphyry had told Chip Harvey something different and he’d passed it on to these guys. Well, if he had, that was Porphyry’s problem. Where was the man anyway? He didn’t like to look at his own watch but he managed to cop a glance at the chunky gold Rolex on Latimer’s wrist and saw that it was after ten thirty.

Bert, the steward, materialized at the table bearing a laden tray. He set it down and began distributing the drinks.

‘Your iced coffee, Mr Sixsmith,’ he said.

‘Right,’ said Joe, thinking, I’m only here five minutes and already the staff know my name.

He sipped the coffee. It was delicious. This was the sort of thing people who joined the Royal Hoo knew from birth, he guessed. Luke-warm coffee tastes like ditchwater but, lose a few more degrees and you get this nectar.

Latimer glanced at his watch.

‘What time are you meeting Chris?’ he asked.

‘Ten thirty.’

‘Passed that now. Bad form keeping a guest waiting, but Chris is always a bit of a law unto himself.’

‘In more ways than one,’ said Surtees shortly.

‘Now, now, Arthur,’ reproved Latimer. ‘But not to worry, Joe. Even if Chris does stand you up, we’ll see you don’t have a wasted journey. We were just trying to work up enough energy to play a couple of holes before lunch. We could do with a fourth. What do you say, fellows? Shall we persuade Joe to join us and show us his style?’

‘Only if he gives us half a dozen gotchas,’ said Surtees.

This was evidently a joke. They all laughed immoderately and Joe joined in, partly to give the impression he knew what they were laughing about, but also because, as a naturally sociable man, he always found mirth infectious.

But when the laughs died away, Latimer returned to the attack, ‘So that’s agreed. You’ll do us the honour 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 him 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 tumour 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!

A Fortunate Lie

As they descended the flight of stairs which led down from the terrace on to 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 towards 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.’