The back 9 on the windswept golf course: knitted sweater-vests and sleeveless fleeces drawn tight, an eagle’s breeze driving down the fairway, shades and sun-visors in the caddy’s bag. 3 over par with 9 holes to play; Mr McTavish 2 over; Reverend Tebbut equal, albeit with a generous handicap.
The 10th, par 5, a winding dog-leg stretching round behind a patch of gloomy conifers. The wide open ground forces Mr McTavish to wipe his eyes laboriously before teeing off. I congratulate him on his shot, he encourages mine in return, and nods in approval. A pair of birdies under the deserted, barren sky; a bogey for Reverend Tebbut, who stays silent.
The 11th, par 3, lay it up over a pool of ragged water, clouding over grey as the weekend wears on. Mr McTavish sails airily over, a hole-in-one, and makes a joke about an albatross, coldly recalling a Monty Python sketch. I chuckle politely and follow him over in two. Reverend Tebbut’s ball is lost with a splash.
The 12th, par 4, a brief break in the clouds and a jab of sunlight. It brings to Mr McTavish’s mind our first meeting, golfing in Spain, bathed in buzzing, bustling, sunlight. Fond holiday memories take the sting out of my bogey. Reverend Tebbut says nothing from outside this conversation, scraping a solid par.
The 13th, par 5, hunting for Reverend Tebbut’s second ball in the undergrowth. I quietly ask Mr McTavish why he’d even invited him in the first place. Par for now irritable Mr McTavish and I, double bogey for Tebbut.
The 14th, par 4, a graceless curve of fairway. Light, cold rain appears before our faces, our shoulders beginning to darken in small patches. We break on a bench, surrounded by bedraggled, skeletal white flowers, intended to befriend the eye. My new wife made Mr McTavish some sandwiches; she tries to do what she can, as there isn’t a Mrs McTavish to do this for him any more.
The 15th, par 3. We all bogey silently in the driving rain.
The 16th, par 4, soaked now, the grass squeaking underfoot. Mr McTavish remarks that my new wife won’t be pleased to find me so drenched; Mrs McTavish always hated wet golf gear. He has been alone for a month now, which has often made play a little uncomfortable. But I’m his golfing partner, and all partners have duties, which they should really stick to.
The 17th, par 3. Reverend Tebbut wordlessly slices a lump of grass into the air, now with a strange sense of grim enjoyment. I hear a rumble of thunder with anxiety. Nothing could be further from that Spanish golfing holiday, when I first met Mr McTavish and the beautiful woman that was then still his faithful wife. I finger my new wedding ring contentedly as I hole my way past Mr McTavish on the scorecard. He vows revenge on the next green.
The 18th, par 4, now thundering steadily. It’s dangerous to play on, but there’s only one more hole. I count the lightning flashes to judge the safest time to swing my club. The rain, the wind and the thunder conspire against me: my ball tumbles into a bunker.
The bunker is deep, about 6 foot, recently re-dug, with a larger pile of sand at one end. I clamber carefully into it, and turn around. Suddenly, in a flash of lightning, Mr McTavish appears above me, swinging his club high into a fearsome drive, straight to the temple. I tumble back into the 1 | 2 NEXT |
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