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101
"No," said Purseglove. "Not at all," said Livermore. "Then why are you laughing?" "Reg just told us a very funny joke," said Purseglove. "Oh I like a good joke," said Moss, his face lighting up, "Tell it to us would you Reg?" Thompson took a deep breath. "Well this Englishman pitched up in this little village in the middle of Wales, and the place..." Hartley went ballistic. “Do you bloody mind?” he snarled, red –faced, steam coming from his ears. “We’re trying to play the game of golf here!” “Steady on Alan,” said Livermore, observing the veins standing out on Hartley’s forehead, “You’ll be doing yourself a mischief.” Moss now saw the opportunity for another cautionary tale from his bank of golf anecdotes and seized on it like a hungry ferret that had waylaid a rabbit. He started to recite: “As Dr A.S. Lamb once said, ‘Golf increases the blood pressure, ruins the disposition, induces neurasthenia, hurts…’” That was as far as he got, and if Purseglove hadn’t had the presence of mind to dive in and shield Hartley with a protective bear hug when the latter drew back his arm to smite Moss on the jaw Hartley would now be an ex-member of Sunnymere. (Golf clubs not taking kindly to members hitting each other, except with golf balls of course, which is unavoidable given the nature of the game and the skills of those participating in it). In the event Critchlow’s intervention, although not making Hartley any less angry with Moss, at least slowed him down enough for him to contemplate what might be the outcome should he succeed in carrying out the assault on Moss. Common sense eventually prevailed and Hartley visibly calmed down. Critchlow released Moss and Hartley, not trusting himself to say another word, took hold of his trolley and marched back down the fairway and off the course. He had been on the course for fourteen minutes ten seconds precisely. On his way off the golf course to deal in no uncertain terms with Daddy Rhythm Mr Captain was surprised by the sight of two constables accompanied by a small boy making their way on to the golf course. Mr Captain’s back was up immediately. Sunnymere Golf Club was private property and could be visited only by invitation from a member and he was quite certain that no one would have offered an invitation to two uniformed policeman and a scruffy boy, especially on Captain’s Day. He waited until they were almost level with him then held up a hand to stop them and said, “Yes, can I help you?" in a tone of voice which made it quite clear that it would be highly unlikely he would be able to help anyone who had obviously no right to be there in the first place. Constable Fearon did not like golf. As a sport he rated it somewhere between topless darts and synchronized tiddlywinks. A dyed-in-the-wool Labour Party supporter of the old school he had always held the opinion that golf was a class-ridden game and that those who played it were fancy-trousered pricks, and had once expressed the opinion that if golfers were to appear in the street in the same clothes in which they walked the golf course they would get locked up, and he would like to be the one who did the locking up. If he had little time for golfers he had even less time for golfers who had recently abused his son by tying him to a golf trolley with a pair of shoelaces and had then proceeded to cart him round the golf course for a few holes, and about the same amount of time for the ones dressed in plus fours and stupid hats like the one confronting him at the moment. |
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