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Authors: Blake Morrison
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with himself, and wondered how he would manage to get over it — whether the whole weekend wasn’t now doomed. But as he thumbed his tee in the ground — ‘Still my honour, I believe’ — he added: ‘I’m not surprised to be losing.’
‘Come on, Ollie,’ I said, aware that (for the first time in my life) I was patronising him, ‘I hardly ever beat you.’
‘It wasn’t intended as a compliment.’
‘Good, I’d hate you to pay me one of those.’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he said. ‘For someone who says he never plays, you’ve been excellent. But my golf’s been crap. With all that’s been happening, it was bound to be.’
‘With all what happening?’
‘Apart from being given my cards, not much, I suppose.’
‘Which cards?’ I said.
‘Forget it.’
I couldn’t forget it. I’d never heard him making excuses for his game before. He’d never had to make excuses. And this didn’t feel like an excuse but, worse, a reason. Which cards had he been given? Was he being ditched by his chambers? Or divorced by Daisy? Was this the news she’d been saving for us?
Distracted, I got under my final tee shot: the ball flew almost vertically, dropping less than fifty yards away, from where, with my second, I scooted unconvincingly to the right edge of the green, just ahead of Ollie’s ball in the rough. For a moment I suspected him of deliberately messing with my head. Though his lie was difficult, a decent chip would see him down in two, to win the hole and halve the game. But he scuffed the shot, hitting the mound surrounding the green, and though his next shot was better the ball rolled past the hole, just missing par. For me it was an easy uphill putt: all I needed was to hold my nerve. And I did, hitting straight and true, but failing to read the slope of the green, which took the ball away left, and more left, and even further left, to end a good five feet from the hole.
‘You win,’ Ollie said. ‘That’s a gimme.’
‘It’s too far away for a gimme,’ I said.
‘Well played.’
‘I ought to putt out.’
‘It’s a gimme,’ Ollie said, picking up my ball and tossing it to me. I might have insisted on replacing it and finishing. But perhaps Ollie was sparing himself rather than being generous to me. The way his luck had gone, my putt would doubtless have dropped in.
Laid-back primary-school teacher though I am, I couldn’t suppress a frisson of triumph. No more than a frisson. And not so Ollie would notice. But I glowed like a war hero inside.
My watch showed 18.45.
‘Drink?’ I said, as we stowed the clubs in his boot.
‘I promised Daisy we’d be back,’ he said.
‘She won’t begrudge us a quick beer,’ I said. ‘What’s the clubhouse like?’
‘Grim,’ he said.
‘Anywhere else?’
‘There’s a pub in the next village. We could try that.’
His wheels churned up gravel as we left the car park.
‘Nice wheels,’ I said.
‘It’s the GT model. 1950 cc. Twin choke. They don’t make cars like this any more.’
The Buck served real ale but didn’t boast about it. We were early and there were few customers.
‘Winner buys the drinks,’ I said, directing Ollie to a picnic table in the garden. Disgruntled at having to serve me, the barman took an age, but eventually I emerged with two pints of Adnams and two bags of plain crisps. The crisps had blue packets of salt inside.
‘So,’ I said, chinking glasses, ‘what’s so serious that it put you off your game?’
‘No excuses,’ he said. ‘You won fair and square.’
‘I won because you gave me a two-shot lead.’
‘Whatever. One—nil to you.’
‘What’s this about your cards?’ I said, ignoring him.
He paused and drank his beer, almost draining his glass before drawing breath. Several wasps were circling mine.
‘Wasps bothering you?’ he said.
‘It’s all right,’ I said, though I’ve had a dread of wasps since the age of six, when I was stung on the neck while eating an orange lolly in our back garden. ‘It’s
‘Come on, Ollie,’ I said, aware that (for the first time in my life) I was patronising him, ‘I hardly ever beat you.’
‘It wasn’t intended as a compliment.’
‘Good, I’d hate you to pay me one of those.’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he said. ‘For someone who says he never plays, you’ve been excellent. But my golf’s been crap. With all that’s been happening, it was bound to be.’
‘With all what happening?’
‘Apart from being given my cards, not much, I suppose.’
‘Which cards?’ I said.
‘Forget it.’
I couldn’t forget it. I’d never heard him making excuses for his game before. He’d never had to make excuses. And this didn’t feel like an excuse but, worse, a reason. Which cards had he been given? Was he being ditched by his chambers? Or divorced by Daisy? Was this the news she’d been saving for us?
Distracted, I got under my final tee shot: the ball flew almost vertically, dropping less than fifty yards away, from where, with my second, I scooted unconvincingly to the right edge of the green, just ahead of Ollie’s ball in the rough. For a moment I suspected him of deliberately messing with my head. Though his lie was difficult, a decent chip would see him down in two, to win the hole and halve the game. But he scuffed the shot, hitting the mound surrounding the green, and though his next shot was better the ball rolled past the hole, just missing par. For me it was an easy uphill putt: all I needed was to hold my nerve. And I did, hitting straight and true, but failing to read the slope of the green, which took the ball away left, and more left, and even further left, to end a good five feet from the hole.
‘You win,’ Ollie said. ‘That’s a gimme.’
‘It’s too far away for a gimme,’ I said.
‘Well played.’
‘I ought to putt out.’
‘It’s a gimme,’ Ollie said, picking up my ball and tossing it to me. I might have insisted on replacing it and finishing. But perhaps Ollie was sparing himself rather than being generous to me. The way his luck had gone, my putt would doubtless have dropped in.
Laid-back primary-school teacher though I am, I couldn’t suppress a frisson of triumph. No more than a frisson. And not so Ollie would notice. But I glowed like a war hero inside.
My watch showed 18.45.
‘Drink?’ I said, as we stowed the clubs in his boot.
‘I promised Daisy we’d be back,’ he said.
‘She won’t begrudge us a quick beer,’ I said. ‘What’s the clubhouse like?’
‘Grim,’ he said.
‘Anywhere else?’
‘There’s a pub in the next village. We could try that.’
His wheels churned up gravel as we left the car park.
‘Nice wheels,’ I said.
‘It’s the GT model. 1950 cc. Twin choke. They don’t make cars like this any more.’
The Buck served real ale but didn’t boast about it. We were early and there were few customers.
‘Winner buys the drinks,’ I said, directing Ollie to a picnic table in the garden. Disgruntled at having to serve me, the barman took an age, but eventually I emerged with two pints of Adnams and two bags of plain crisps. The crisps had blue packets of salt inside.
‘So,’ I said, chinking glasses, ‘what’s so serious that it put you off your game?’
‘No excuses,’ he said. ‘You won fair and square.’
‘I won because you gave me a two-shot lead.’
‘Whatever. One—nil to you.’
‘What’s this about your cards?’ I said, ignoring him.
He paused and drank his beer, almost draining his glass before drawing breath. Several wasps were circling mine.
‘Wasps bothering you?’ he said.
‘It’s all right,’ I said, though I’ve had a dread of wasps since the age of six, when I was stung on the neck while eating an orange lolly in our back garden. ‘It’s
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