|
|
|
|
|
|
14
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 there Chapman returned to the topic they had been discussing when they had last been together on leaving the tee and were out of Mr Captain’s earshot. "It's Captain's Day for God's sake," he railed. "Women have no right to be on the course on Captain’s Day, let alone doing the measuring." He shook his head, at a loss. "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 to swear!” "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 coffin for one of them," said Chapman. “Then I’d be there with my tape measure at the drop of a hat.” “Only 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 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 their 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 from his contretemps with Dawson and Elwes. "What?” he barked. "Yes, my sister 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 him up onto his toes. "Are you in this with those two pillocks back there?" "What two pillocks back where?" spluttered Hanson, trying 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 or so yards away. "Fuck Mr Captain," said Fidler, having made the decision in the meantime that if he was to appear before the General Committee on a charge of swearing that he might as well get hung for a sheep as a lamb. He tightened his grip on the struggling Hanson then thrust his face closer so that their noses were almost touching, a position that did little to endear itself to Hanson as Fidler's proboscis had a dewdrop on the end of it which he feared might drop off and land on the new Pringle sweater that Tobin had just sold him. "Well?" said Fidler. |