angry he can’t think. On autopilot, he starts the car and drives to the golf club.
He could drive right up to the clubhouse but, as usual, he parks down the bottom where he can look through the scrub and across to the rock pool. God’s own country, and it’s still a secret.
He turns off the engine but makes no effort to get out of the car. His heart is beating double speed. He can feel it popping its way through his shirt. He’ll be on his way to a heart attack if it doesn’t slow down soon. And he’ll be blowed if he’s going to have a heart attack on her account.
Your conduct was inappropriate.
God, just thinking about it makes him want to punch something.
Lady , he should have said, I was a teacher when you were still at school, and I think I can judge what’s appropriate and what’s not. How dare you question my conduct? How dare you? That’s exactly what he should have said.
He’s still cursing as he wheels his golf bag up to the clubhouse. But he can’t let it spoil his game. On that score he’s adamant: he’s not going to let it put him off his game.
Sid is already waiting for him, holding his one golf club, his pockets bulging with golf balls.
‘Sorry for keeping you, mate,’ Terry says.
‘I saw you go into the office. Figured you might be held up.’
Terry kicks at the ground. ‘Well, she wanted a word, didn’t she?’
Sid nods but doesn’t ask for the details. It’s one of the things Terry most likes about him, that he doesn’t push. ‘Righto,’ he says.
Terry could tell him all of it; there’s nothing he can’t trust Sid with. Over all the years at Brindle Public, that’s something he’s learnt: that Sid’s a good man. So he opens his mouth to say something. Something like, You know what she wanted? But just thinking about it is making him feel sick, like there’s a rock in his stomach, so instead he stays quiet.
And silence is okay by Sid, too, so it’s in silence that they make their way up to the first hole.
It’s a dog of a course in a jewel of a position. That’s how Terry describes it. The clubhouse needs a paint and an update, and at the moment there’s more sandy soil under foot than there is grass. But the greens are still all right. Even when the rest of the country’s in drought, still the greens get looked after. Tank water or something like that. Whatever they do to get around the water restrictions.
Terry steals a glance at Sid. He still doesn’t get it. They must have been playing golf together for, what, twelve years? Could be even longer. And in all the years, Sid’s stuck to the one golf club. Early on,Terry didn’t comment on it; he figured it must be a financial issue, something like that. So before Sid’s birthday one year, he passed the hat around the staff and got enough to buy three decent irons and a good putter. Then he topped up the takings himself so they could throw in a golf bag. A bloody good present. That’s what he’d thought: a bloody good present. And, to be fair, Sid used the lot for a bit. But within a matter of months, he was back to his old one-iron game. Except that he used one of the new irons instead of his old one. The bag, the putter and the other irons—by Terry’s calculations they haven’t seen the light of day in eight years. It ticked him off at first, that they’d gone to such a lot of trouble only to have it all gathering dust in Sid’s garage, but not anymore. If Sid wants to play with one iron, good luck to him. More chance of yours truly winning the game that way.
Although now, with the sun still beating down and the air heavy and humid, he thinks that Sid might be on to something. Because today’s one of those days Terry would rather not be pulling his bag up the hill through dead grass and dry sand.
Baggage-free, Sid is at the first tee while Terry’s still struggling to get up there.
‘Come on, mate,’ Sid calls. ‘Thought you were supposed to be the youngster here?’
The jibe injects
He could drive right up to the clubhouse but, as usual, he parks down the bottom where he can look through the scrub and across to the rock pool. God’s own country, and it’s still a secret.
He turns off the engine but makes no effort to get out of the car. His heart is beating double speed. He can feel it popping its way through his shirt. He’ll be on his way to a heart attack if it doesn’t slow down soon. And he’ll be blowed if he’s going to have a heart attack on her account.
Your conduct was inappropriate.
God, just thinking about it makes him want to punch something.
Lady , he should have said, I was a teacher when you were still at school, and I think I can judge what’s appropriate and what’s not. How dare you question my conduct? How dare you? That’s exactly what he should have said.
He’s still cursing as he wheels his golf bag up to the clubhouse. But he can’t let it spoil his game. On that score he’s adamant: he’s not going to let it put him off his game.
Sid is already waiting for him, holding his one golf club, his pockets bulging with golf balls.
‘Sorry for keeping you, mate,’ Terry says.
‘I saw you go into the office. Figured you might be held up.’
Terry kicks at the ground. ‘Well, she wanted a word, didn’t she?’
Sid nods but doesn’t ask for the details. It’s one of the things Terry most likes about him, that he doesn’t push. ‘Righto,’ he says.
Terry could tell him all of it; there’s nothing he can’t trust Sid with. Over all the years at Brindle Public, that’s something he’s learnt: that Sid’s a good man. So he opens his mouth to say something. Something like, You know what she wanted? But just thinking about it is making him feel sick, like there’s a rock in his stomach, so instead he stays quiet.
And silence is okay by Sid, too, so it’s in silence that they make their way up to the first hole.
It’s a dog of a course in a jewel of a position. That’s how Terry describes it. The clubhouse needs a paint and an update, and at the moment there’s more sandy soil under foot than there is grass. But the greens are still all right. Even when the rest of the country’s in drought, still the greens get looked after. Tank water or something like that. Whatever they do to get around the water restrictions.
Terry steals a glance at Sid. He still doesn’t get it. They must have been playing golf together for, what, twelve years? Could be even longer. And in all the years, Sid’s stuck to the one golf club. Early on,Terry didn’t comment on it; he figured it must be a financial issue, something like that. So before Sid’s birthday one year, he passed the hat around the staff and got enough to buy three decent irons and a good putter. Then he topped up the takings himself so they could throw in a golf bag. A bloody good present. That’s what he’d thought: a bloody good present. And, to be fair, Sid used the lot for a bit. But within a matter of months, he was back to his old one-iron game. Except that he used one of the new irons instead of his old one. The bag, the putter and the other irons—by Terry’s calculations they haven’t seen the light of day in eight years. It ticked him off at first, that they’d gone to such a lot of trouble only to have it all gathering dust in Sid’s garage, but not anymore. If Sid wants to play with one iron, good luck to him. More chance of yours truly winning the game that way.
Although now, with the sun still beating down and the air heavy and humid, he thinks that Sid might be on to something. Because today’s one of those days Terry would rather not be pulling his bag up the hill through dead grass and dry sand.
Baggage-free, Sid is at the first tee while Terry’s still struggling to get up there.
‘Come on, mate,’ Sid calls. ‘Thought you were supposed to be the youngster here?’
The jibe injects
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