Loopy Page 10

  He had to admit that of late, he had been interested in nothing but golf. It was the only thing that got his attention day in and day out. He wondered anxiously if it was possible to be a really good golfer and still have a normal life. The sort of life where people socialized, went out on dates, fell in and out of love, and all that sort of thing. He felt something for Amy, much more than he had ever felt about Maire, but he wasn’t sure if it was love or something else. He thought about it for quite a long time before going back to hitting more golf balls. He was using the driver that O’Hara had given him, the same one he’d used to drive the green the day it had all started for him. The reality was that his whole world had been taken over by golf.

  His handicap was down to three, one shot more than Tim Porter. They had become good friends, despite the difference in age and upbringing. Whenever Tim was around, they played together, and an intense but friendly rivalry had sprung up between them. It was as if Loopy had a jinx on Tim. Nine times out of ten, he could beat him in a level match, despite the handicap rating. But it was not enough to beat Tim regularly—Loopy wanted more than anything else in the world to have the lowest handicap in Trabane Golf Club. It was not simply the prestige; Joe Delany had promised him a new driver if he managed it. Not just any driver, but one of the new high-tech ones that cost a small fortune.

  Of course Tim Porter had one, just as he also had the latest BMW to travel round the country selling wine. His father was far too wise an old owl to let Tim loose on Porters, the core wine-importing business that dealt in classic French vintages for the better hotels, restaurants, and wealthy collectors. Tim was brand manager, a title he rather fancied, for the miniature wine bottles sold through bars and off-licenses. His father had entered this market with the greatest reluctance, for here it was price rather than quality that counted. However, it was a fast-growing market sector, and one that did not require any great knowledge of the wine industry. In truth, all it needed was frequent servicing, which meant that Tim had to meet his customers regularly, listen to their complaints, and either play golf with them or take them out to dinner as circumstances dictated. It was the perfect job for an only son whose greatest talent was his ability to get along with all and sundry.

  In the wine trade, young Tim Porter was regarded as an artless if amiable upper-class twit. His education at one of the more expensive boarding schools sat lightly on his broad shoulders. He had been useful at rugby and tennis, played an adequate game of bridge, but golf was his first love. In golfing circles he was much more highly thought of than elsewhere. As well as sporting the lowest handicap at Trabane, for the past six years he had represented it in the prestigious Atlantic Trophy. Which was another way of saying that he was the best player by far—except that Loopy could now beat him nine times out of ten.

  The Trophy differed from other amateur tournaments in that competitors had to be invited to play. Sixty-four clubs were asked to send one player each to compete in a knockout competition played over the Easter weekend. In all the other “majors,” players either qualified by handicap, an open draw, or knockout competition. It was appropriate that it be a bank-holiday weekend, for the Atlantic Trophy was sponsored by none other than Leo Martin’s employers, the Allied Banks of Ireland Group. The bank’s corporate clients—mostly American, for it was there the Allied Banks of Ireland had plans for expansion—were the A-list invitees. After that came the teams from preferred golf clubs.

  It was no coincidence that golf clubs fortunate enough to be invited tended to bank with the sponsors, and the individuals competing were invariably clients in good standing with ABI. The candidate selected by the invited clubs did not necessarily have to be the best golfer available, merely the most acceptable to the sponsors. The golf course in the popular seaside resort of Ballykissane, where The Atlantic, as it was generally known, had been staged since time immemorial, was not unlike the links at Trabane.

  Both courses were buffeted by gales blowing in from the ocean, gusting and eddying between giant sand dunes, which made shotmaking exceptionally difficult. There was the same wiry grass in the rough with an added hazard at The Atlantic—clumps of thick heather that flourished among the dunes. Hacking a golf ball out of these was an uncertain science and required not just nerves, but also wrists, of steel.

  When Tim Porter announced that his business would bring him to Ballykissane for an overnight trip and invited Loopy to accompany him, Joe Delany insisted that the offer should be accepted without hesitation.

  On the long drive to Ballykissane, Tim Porter revealed that he had never got past the second round of The Atlantic. He described this as being “a bit of a pain in the arse” but hardly surprising since nearly all of the Irish International golf team and many past Internationals made up the field every year. If that weren’t enough, the sponsors invited their American clients, some of whom were—or had been—good enough to represent their country in the Walker Cup.

  “It’s really the last of the amateur events in the true meaning of the word. It’s pure match play, not stroke—and it’s a bloody tiring thirty-six holes every day. Your club pays the entry, but you have to cough up for your own hotel expenses, food, caddies, and lots of other things besides. The bank throws a big party on the last night, but that’s about it!”

  Loopy was more interested in the trophy. “When is the cup presented?”

  “The Atlantic Trophy you mean? Immediately after the final round, outside the clubhouse. Win that, mate, and you’re made for bloody life!”

  Maybe so, thought Loopy, but only if you are in a position to properly benefit from it. Someone like Tim for instance. If he won it, he could dine out on it for the rest of his life. His customers would really be impressed and no mistake. He might even be invited to join the board of ABI at some future date. Quite what benefits winning The Atlantic would bestow on a country boy like Loopy were less obvious. They chatted easily about anything and everything as the big car ate up the miles.

  The Royal Hotel at Ballykissane was a lavish affair. It had once been a railway hotel where trains deposited golfers from the cities to test their mettle against one of the best links courses on the planet. Now, with the railways long replaced by motorways, The Royal struggled to maintain at least some of its former glory.

  Tim explained that they would be sharing a room. Tim’s father handled the main account for the serious wine in the hotel’s cellars, but the bar, in line with everywhere else, was selling more and more wine by the glass. The manager, at the urging of his bar staff, was anxious to upgrade the quality of wine that came out of the miniature, screw-top bottles that Tim supplied. Tim, believing that Loopy might be interested because of his work behind the bar of the golf club, explained at some length, “The stuff in most of those small bottles is absolute piss! There are a few, damn few actually, that could be classed as drinkable, but they are a damned sight more expensive. What The Royal want from me is the good stuff at the old price, and that simply can’t be done. Still, we’ll get a night at the hotel at half-rate, a decent dinner, and a free round of golf just for listening to their tales of woe and slipping the head barman a few quid under the counter. Absolutely vital to have him onside during The Atlantic—for the after-hours drinkies, y’know. Then, of course”—he was now talking to himself as much as to Loopy when he remarked wistfully and without any explanation whatsoever—“there’s always good old Lily.”

  They had arrived at the hotel entrance by driving around, rather than through, the holiday resort of Ballykissane, still empty of visitors in early April. From the top of the flight of marble steps that led to the porch guarding the front door, Tim gestured toward a distant collection of mountainous sand hills in the distance, with the Atlantic ocean forming a glittering backdrop.

  “That’s the golf course over there. We’ll check in first, then grab something to eat before we play. After that, dinner, and then, with any luck,” he added enigmatically, “I might be leaving you to your own devices for a while.”
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  At reception, they were handed two green-fee tickets and directed to their room. It was enormous and Loopy worried how he was going to pay for it, even at half-rate, when Tim, as if reading his mind, remarked casually, “By the way, in case you were wondering, this is all on the house. The House of Porter, that is, purveyors of fine wines for over a century. Actually,” he added in a cheery tone, “I’ve always thought that Porter was an odd name for a wine merchant, but there you go. Beggars can’t be choosers. They say you can pick your friends but not your relations—and that goes for your name, too, I expect. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that this is a business trip and you are, for the purposes of the act, my guest. That includes green fees, which are, I’m glad to say, included in the overnight rate. So, Larry my boy, the only time you’ll have to put your hand in your pocket is to pay for the odd drink and, of course, your caddy.”

  Loopy had been advised that it would be madness not to take a caddy for his first round on an unfamiliar course, especially one as testing as this. He had been expecting someone of his own age to caddy for him, so it came as quite a shock when the caddy master, after a whispered discussion with Tim, directed Loopy toward a disheveled bundle of rags sitting on a bench. The caddy struggled to his feet and tightened the belt of a heavy overcoat that had seen better days, even though the hot afternoon sun was splitting the stones. Loopy tried to hide his dismay at being put in the hands of a senior caddy, and such a dismal-looking one at that. The caddy master’s introduction was brief and to the point: “This is Weeshy.”

  Weeshy gave a cough like a rasp on metal before he removed the remains of a cigarette from his lower lip and stamped on it with what had once, a long time ago, been a Nike trainer. Removing the last shreds of tobacco by flicking his tongue like a serpent, he spat them out delicately. They struck the ground inches from Loopy’s feet. Weeshy eyed the golf bag with obvious distaste before hoisting it over his right shoulder and walking with a rolling gait toward the first tee.

  Tim’s caddy, a lad of about fifteen or so, muttered into Loopy’s ear so as not to be heard by his senior colleague, “Mr. Porter tells me you hit a long ball, but I’d advise you to listen to old Weeshy. After he’s seen you play a hole or two, he’ll know what club you need better than yourself. He mightn’t be much to look at, but he knows every blade of grass around here.”

  The first hole at Ballykissane stretched upward for what seemed an eternity. Though the ocean was not visible, its pounding surf could be clearly heard from behind the sand dunes, some of which were a hundred feet or more in height. Four hundred and forty-eight yards of ribbonlike fairway threaded its way around hummocks and hillocks to a small plateau high up among the dunes. The only indication that it was a green was the fluttering triangle of red in the distance. Loopy gave Tim the honor of teeing off first, and he striped one down the middle. Using O’Hara’s old driver with the wooden head, Loopy hit a good drive, some twenty-five yards past Tim’s and in the middle of the fairway. If Weeshy was impressed, he gave no indication.

  Tim hit a four iron that made a gallant effort to reach the green before dropping just short of the target and trickling forty yards back down to the base of the hill. On reaching Loopy’s ball, Weeshy handed him a seven iron without comment. Loopy was sure that it was not enough club to reach the flag that fluttered uneasily in the swirling sea breeze. Then he remembered what Tim’s caddy had said, even though Weeshy had yet to see Loopy hit an iron.

  He struck the seven iron sweetly, sending the ball high into a sky of the palest blue. It soared ever upward until, losing its forward momentum, it dropped back to earth, disappearing behind the ridge at the front of the green. He looked toward Weeshy for a nod of approval, but none was forthcoming. The caddy merely grunted, cleared his throat noisily, and shouldered the heavy bag before setting off on the steep climb to the green.

  “How did you get on?” Tim had been too busy with his difficult third shot to take much notice of Loopy’s second to the green.

  “I dunno really…” Loopy stopped in midsentence to make sure he was out of Weeshy’s earshot before confessing, “The caddy handed me a seven and I was afraid to give it back and ask him for a five. I hit it well, though, so maybe the old guy was right after all.”

  He was. When they reached the saucer-shaped green, both balls were within fifteen feet of the pin.

  It was Loopy’s putt first—for a birdie. Five yards down a slope, it would break at least six inches to the right, Loopy decided. He was so sure of the line that he didn’t think it worthwhile to consult his caddy. He struck the putt exactly as he had intended. It missed by six inches. The look in Weeshy’s rheumy eyes said as clearly as if it had been emblazoned in neon across his forehead, I could have told you that if you had asked me!

  The second hole was a par three of two hundred yards. The second green lay just beyond a deep ravine, full of rocks and wild heather that surrounded a rancid pond. Out of this sprouted row upon row of tall, slender bulrushes, swaying gently in the wind. A pair of water hens cackled to each other across the water, oblivious to the four figures standing on the tee far above them.

  Weeshy handed Loopy the same club again, a seven iron. This time the caddie actually spoke as he struggled to light another cigarette in the wind that tugged at their trouser legs on the exposed tee. As Loopy reluctantly accepted the seven iron and gave it an experimental swish before settling over the ball, Weeshy growled, “Ye needn’t be afraid to hit it, anyways!”

  Loopy hit the ball as hard as he dared. It landed past the flagstick, checked on the second bounce, then rolled back down the slope to within six feet of the pin. He had missed the birdie putt on the first but had still won the hole with a four to Tim’s struggling five. As Weeshy retrieved the club and jammed it back in the bag, he grabbed Loopy by the shoulder. “Hole it this time, about a ball to the left.”

  With that, Weeshy was off down the narrow path that skirted the ravine, covering the ground faster than one would have thought possible. As Loopy and Tim were already starting to perspire, how Weeshy, almost twice their combined ages, could wear a heavy overcoat and carry a heavy golf bag was a mystery. With the hem of his coat down to his ankles, he appeared to glide over the rugged terrain with that rolling gait of his. From behind the green Tim played a delicate chip shot to within a foot of the hole.

  “That’s good!”

  It was match play, so short putts like this were conceded as a matter of course. Weeshy handed the putter to Loopy, confirming his reading from the distant tee: “A ball to the left, like I said.”

  Going down on one knee as if in prayer, Loopy lined up the putt from behind the ball. To him it looked dead straight. If anything, it looked as though it might break just a fraction to the right. Still uncertain, he got to his feet and repeated the exercise from the far side of the hole. From there the putt looked to be straight as an arrow. He stood over the putt for longer than usual, his mind a mass of seething contradictions.

  Weeshy had called the putt from the tee, a good two hundred yards distant, as being a ball to the left. He had confirmed this as he’d handed Loopy the putter. Tim’s caddy had told Loopy that Weeshy had been caddying here since Adam was a boy. Despite his missed putt on the first green, every fiber in Loopy’s body told him that this putt was straight—and up to now he had always trusted his own judgment. He lined up the putt for the back of the hole and struck it straight and true. At the last moment it veered sharply to the right, missing the hole by two inches, the width of a golf ball.

  No one said anything. His caddie slammed the putter back in the bag. From there on, Loopy got the message and followed Weeshy’s advice to the letter, not just on the green but also on the blind shots where white stones set high in the dunes were the only indication of where a green might be. In so doing he had beaten Tim by the comfortable margin of four up with three holes to go. He had also won the “bye” over the last three holes despite giving Tim generous odds to save his money.

 
The last hole was long and narrow with bunkers deep enough to hide a grown man. Their sheer sides made it difficult to get the ball out, much less advance it in any meaningful way. Tim had played the last hole perfectly, leaving his ball some eighty yards from the green in two solid shots, one with the driver and the other a well-struck three wood. Loopy had hit an enormous drive that had caught the edge of the rough but found a tight lie that would prevent him from hitting a fairway wood. Obediently, he waited for Weeshy to hand him a club. It was the three wood.

  “Give it a good cut with that!”

  Loopy looked at the caddy and then at the three wood. Tim had shown him months back how to cut a six iron out of the rough, but the fairway wood was a different proposition altogether. Seeing the look of doubt, Weeshy snarled, “Cut it up, man, like I’m telling you, for Jaysus’ sake! Aim well to the left of the green and cut it in. Go on.” It was the first time Weeshy had appeared agitated all day. “I knows you can do it, anyways!”

  Loopy placed the clubhead ever so deliberately behind the ball nestling deep in the wiry dune grass. Suddenly any doubts he might have had about pulling off the shot disappeared. They had been replaced by a familiar feeling, the tingling sensation in the hairs at the nape of his neck.

  His mind emptied itself of everything. All he could focus on was that small white ball. He took the club back slowly. As he started the downswing, it was as if nature itself were holding its breath. The surf stopped pounding, the wind no longer whistled through the towering sand dunes, and even the seagulls stopped their squawking long enough for Loopy to execute the stroke.

  He caught the ball square, despite its poor lie. It exploded skyward, hanging in the air for what seemed like an eternity before swooping down short of the green. Then, as if gaining energy from the tightly cut fairway, it bounded forward again. It scampered past an evil sand dune seeking to ensnare it in its grasp, then daintily sidestepped a deep bunker guarding the entrance to the green. Rapidly running out of steam, it came to rest on the front edge of the green, some 230 yards distant.