Loopy Read online

  Tim was speechless. His caddy slapped Loopy on the back, shouting, “Bloody marvelous, best I’ve seen from there!”

  Weeshy displayed no emotion other than to grab the three wood and stuff it back into the bag. Loopy searched his face in vain for the merest hint of approval. None was forthcoming. Tim pitched to within six feet of the hole. Loopy’s putt was twice that distance and sharply downhill with what looked like at least three different breaks on its way to the hole. Weeshy handed him the putter, muttering, “Straight putt—nurse it down to the hole.”

  Loopy drew a bead on the front of the hole, imagined it to be about four feet nearer than it actually was, and stroked the putt ever so gently. The ball drifted to the left, steadied itself, then wandered off to the right for a few feet before swinging left again at the very last moment to tumble into the hole. This time Weeshy did not restrain himself. He winked at Loopy as if to say, Look what happens when you do what I tell you, then spat on the green, this time a respectable distance from Loopy’s feet. Three at the par five eighteenth was that rarest of birds—an eagle.

  As they walked toward the clubhouse, their round finished, Loopy was so elated that he scarcely noticed Tim babbling excitedly about how well Loopy had played. He had taken on one of the toughest courses and won, even though Weeshy still appeared put out by something. Could it have been that his advice had been ignored over the opening holes?

  When Loopy tried to pay Weeshy the agreed ten pounds, the caddy waved it away disdainfully. “I’ll get it—and more—from you the next time.”

  As there had been no mention of any next time, Loopy tried to insist that Weeshy take the money there and then, but the old man was adamant. “You look as if you need it more than myself, anyways. I tell you, I’ll get it back from you the next time!”

  With that he turned on his heel and shambled off, leaving Loopy and Tim wondering what he meant.

  That night in the dining room of The Royal Hotel, Loopy’s education took a further step. Faced with an array of spoons, knives, and forks, he found himself at a complete loss. No caddy this time, he reflected, to help him select the right implement. To make matters worse, the menu had so many foreign words in it that he didn’t dare to catch the eye of the waiter hovering at his elbow. The waiter had already inquired a trifle too icily for Loopy’s comfort as to what “sir” might like to start with when Tim came to the rescue. He suggested that they start with sherry and then discuss what they would eat.

  “But you know I don’t drink,” Loopy protested once the waiter had glided out of earshot.

  “Blast, I’d completely forgotten about that! Well, it looks as if I’ll just have to drink for us both then, doesn’t it?”

  The laugh that followed was too hearty. Loopy sensed that for some reason Tim was not completely at ease. This struck Loopy as odd. He, if anyone, should have been the one to feel uncomfortable in these unfamiliar surroundings. The cause of Tim’s discomfiture was not long in revealing itself.

  “Larry, old chap, I have a problem.”

  Loopy looked startled. Was Tim going to confess to being gay and admit that was the real reason they were sharing a room?

  “Oh, yes? What is it?”

  “Well, it’s like this. I have an … an…” Tim struggled to find the right word. “An understanding, yes, that’s the word I was looking for. Well, I have an understanding with a woman. Her name’s Lily actually, who works in this hotel. You may have heard me inquiring about her when we checked in. Yes? Well, I did. And the upshot of it all is that she’s, ah … ah … visiting me in my—I mean our room around nine o’clock. Do you get what I’m driving at?”

  “Sure, I get you, Tim. You want me out of the way for a few hours while you’re with Lily. That’s no problem. I’ll take a walk along the strand or maybe even hit a few balls on the practice range if there’s still light. Just give me an idea of when I can come back. Now, maybe you can help me out.”

  “Yes, of course. Anything you need.”

  “For a start you can tell me which knife and fork I use first.”

  They laughed, and the awkward moment had passed. It proved too dark for the practice ground so Loopy strolled down to the pier as the sun was setting. Fishing boats rocked gently on the oily water, shot with the last rays of the sun. Seagulls swooped and dived, screeching as if trying to keep the darkness at bay.

  He had to pick his steps carefully along the pier. Lobster pots with stinking bait inside, massive marker buoys tethered to coils of rope, and untidy heaps of filament nets were scattered everywhere. As he picked his way round the debris, he saw a lonely figure sitting with his legs dangling over the end of the pier. It was staring intently out to sea as the last glimmer of sunset sank below the horizon. Overhead a few hungry gulls dived into the darkening waters in search of a fish supper.

  He was about to turn when he banged his foot against a lobster pot. The sudden noise startled the figure gazing out to sea, causing it to turn round. It was Weeshy. Too late Loopy realized the man was drunk, very drunk.

  “Ah, if it isn’t yourself!” The voice was slurred and the eyes bloodshot. “What brings a young man like yourself to the arsehole of nowhere at this time of night, anyways?”

  “Just taking a bit of a walk, that’s all. Nice evening, isn’t it?”

  Weeshy hiccuped, then cleared his throat with a hacking cough. Loopy was about to leave when Weeshy demanded aggressively, “Where’s the other fellow? Tim, Tim Stout or whatever his name is.”

  “Porter.”

  “Whaa … What are you saying?”

  “His name is Porter. Tim Porter. He’s back at the hotel.”

  “The Royal?”

  Loopy nodded, anxious to bring the conversation to an end. He wasn’t much good at talking to drunks, and his time spent serving behind the bar had taught him that it was usually foolish to even try. He told himself to keep his answers, indeed the entire conversation, as brief as possible.

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “I suppose your man is paying?” Without waiting for an answer, Weeshy, his monosyllabic tongue loosened by drink, pressed on, “I seen that fella around here for the past few years. Plays in The Atlantic, so he does. Never gets anywhere and I’m not surprised.”

  “Why’s that?” Loopy asked before he could stop himself.

  “His shaggin’ swing, that’s his problem.”

  “It looks okay to me.” Loopy was not going to let down his friend. Tim’s swing looked just fine; in fact, Loopy often envied its studied slowness.

  This must have stung because Weeshy now showed that he was a good mimic. “It looks okay to me! What the fuck do you know about the golf swing, anyways?”

  Before Loopy could answer, Weeshy was off again, a trail of angry spittle punctuating his every word. “His bloody swing is like every golf book that was ever written. His backswing is Ben Hogan’s—just watch his wrists. But then he lets go at the top and changes into Jack Nicklaus until he’s halfway down. By then he thinks he’s a mixture of Bobby Jones and Fred Couples. Trouble is”—there was a pause while Weeshy belched loudly—“by the time he gets the clubhead to the ball, he doesn’t know who the fuck he is.”

  “Maybe so. I’ve never read any of those books so I wouldn’t know much about—”

  Weeshy cut in viciously, “You’re a damn sight better off. Be yourself, anyways. That loop of yours is better than Jimmy Bruen’s, God rest him. Let no one change it on you, d’you hear me?”

  By now Weeshy was shouting angrily and waving his arms around as if to emphasize what he was saying. Loopy nodded and made as if to go.

  “And another thing”—another loud belch—“when you come back here again as you surely will, remember, I’m your caddy.”

  With that Weeshy abruptly turned his back on Loopy and resumed his examination of the horizon, by now a deep shade of purple streaked with darkening gold. As Loopy made his way back down the pier, the stars were already piercing the clear night sky and the gulls had gone
silent. Hurrying up the road from the pier to the main street of Ballykissane, he turned to give a last backward look at his caddy. He was just visible, a lonely, huddled figure at the end of the pier.

  * * *

  Back in the room, Tim was already in bed. “Very sporting of you, Larry old chap. Lily and I have had this thing going for the past few years. We met quite by accident during the first Atlantic I played in. I’d been knocked out in the first round and was thoroughly fed up with myself. Went out and got pissed. So pissed in fact that I fell out of bed without knowing it. When the chambermaids came to do my room, they saw yours truly lying on the floor and thought I was dead. That’s when they called Lily. She’s the housekeeper, y’see. Well, I need hardly tell you, we hit it off a treat right from the start. She’s married to some frightful fellow and sees me as a kind of knight in shining armor.” Tim paused to gauge how all of this was going down with his roommate. “Must say, though, she knows her stuff. Know what I mean?”

  Loopy did not bother to answer. He pulled the bedclothes over his head and pretended to sleep. When he did drop off, it was not Tim Porter’s couplings but the huddled figure at the end of the pier that haunted his dreams. It had toppled in and was flailing about in the water, desperately trying to stay afloat. Loopy, alone and unable to swim, could only look on helplessly as the drowning Weeshy shrieked, “Let no one change it on you, d’you hear me? Remember, I’m your caddy!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  News of Tim Porter’s illness spread like wildfire. Linda, Joe Delany’s wife, heard for a fact that he was in the intensive care unit of the capital’s most fashionable clinic, while others insisted that it was something to do with his pancreas and had him lodged in St. Luke’s cancer hospital, undergoing tests. It was a considerable relief, therefore, to everyone, especially the committee of the golf club, to learn that in truth he was confined to bed in his father’s elegant retreat some twenty-five miles from Trabane. And there, it was confirmed, he would remain until the kidney infection cleared up. In the interim he was to be allowed few visitors and only those of his own choosing. Which was how Loopy came to be driving up the long, winding avenue to Castle Porter, having first identified himself and Pat O’Hara to the speaker attached to the remote-controlled entrance gates.

  The driveway must have been the best part of a mile long, Loopy estimated, with post-and-rail fencing on either side—the hallmark of a successful stud farm. In some of the paddocks, foals played around their mothers. In others, sleek racing machines frisked and played games of tag with each other, aloof as supermodels on a catwalk. Here and there mighty stallions, always alone and fenced off from temptation, stalked dejectedly to and fro, whinnying at a distant herd of black-and-white cows that grazed contentedly, oblivious to everything but the fresh grass under their noses. The peace and tranquility of the scene reduced both driver and passenger to a stunned silence. Even more impressive was the stately pile that loomed up before them. Castle Porter was enormous, a square manor house built centuries ago out of limestone blocks sturdy enough to withstand the most determined assault. The entrance door was set in a porch at the top of a steep flight of steps, down which a long, lean figure of a man was hurrying. He introduced himself as Tim’s father and ushered them through a hall door studded with evil-looking spiked nails. The hallway was paneled in dark wood and its walls were festooned with the heads of long-dead animals. Sam Porter, a lanky, angular man dressed in heavy tweeds, examined the visitors through hooded eyes of piercing blue. These contrasted sharply with his aquiline nose, which was of the deepest purple.

  “Welcome to you both!” Grasping Loopy by the shoulder, Mr. Porter addressed him first. “You must be Larry Lynch. Tim speaks most highly of you, especially your golf. Tells me you beat him recently. And you”—turning to O’Hara—“must be Pat O’Hara. Can you really be retired and you looking so young?”

  O’Hara, who had been roundly cursing the landed gentry all the way up the long, rhododendron-lined avenue, seemed mollified by such outrageous flattery and conceded that it was indeed he.

  “Good, then come inside. The patient is in an upstairs room and likely to be there for some time if old Doc Hegarty has his way. Follow me.”

  With that Mr. Porter bounded up the wide stairs at the end of the hall, taking the steps two at a time. At a landing at the top, more dead animal heads lined the walls, interspersed by the occasional African spear. They were ushered into a large bedroom, brightly lit by enormous windows looking out over the rolling pastures of the Castle Porter estate.

  Tim’s bulky frame was almost lost in an enormous four-poster bed. Propped up on pillows, he was looking sorry for himself as his father announced the two visitors before slipping silently out of the room. Loopy and O’Hara drew up chairs to the bedside.

  “Bloody ridiculous to catch this stupid infection. Probably from drinking too much of my own wine, eh, Loopy?”

  After some small talk, all of a sudden Tim became more businesslike. Turning to O’Hara, he declared without preamble, “It looks like I won’t be fit for the Atlantic Trophy next month, so I just wanted to tell you in person, Pat, that I believe young Loopy here is the right man for the job.”

  O’Hara stared at Tim in disbelief as if he could not believe his ears. He had never heard anything so ridiculous inside or outside the classroom. How could anyone, even someone as dim-witted as Tim Porter, even consider the possibility? A lad with such humble origins had about as much chance of being asked to play in the Atlantic Trophy as being elected pope. He did not try to hide his feelings as he growled, “Is that why you dragged us all this way down here? Just so that you could let us in on the news that you wanted our friend here to take your place in the Atlantic Trophy? Jaysus, you’ve got some neck, Tim Porter, so you have!”

  Exasperated, Tim struggled with the pillows to prop himself up higher before replying with more spirit than might have been good for him, considering his condition, “Listen to me for once, will you.” Turning to Loopy, Tim explained as if O’Hara were not there, “Y’know, that’s the trouble with all these bloody schoolteachers—they never bloody listen. I suppose they get into the habit of yakkety-yakking on and on in the classroom, and God help anyone who dares to butt in.”

  Tim continued in a calmer voice, “Now, if Pat will shut up for a second, the reason I asked you both here at such short notice is that I knew I couldn’t convince either of you over the phone. And as I’m not much good with the pen, writing it all down would have been no good either. I had to see you both and convince you—”

  O’Hara cut in impatiently, “Oh, have a bit of sense, Tim. Supposing, just supposing, that you could convince me and Larry here. What about the bloody committee, especially Mr. Leo bloody Martin? You know as well as I do that it’s his bank is sponsoring The Atlantic, and that Leo has always had a big say in who represents Trabane. Up to now, there’s been no problem because you’ve always been the obvious choice. Not just because of your golf either, but also because of all this…” O’Hara flapped a hand around at the luxurious surroundings in which Tim was convalescing.

  As Tim tried to interrupt, he was waved into silence as O’Hara stubbornly held the floor. “Now hold on a minute, Tim, let me finish. You know as well as I do that anyone playing in The Atlantic has to be”—O’Hara paused, seeking a way to phrase what he wanted to say without causing offense—“shall we say, well-off. And it’s no harm to be a client in good standing with Allied bloody Banks of Ireland. An expensive education is no harm either. Surely it must have occurred to you, lying there in your bed with all the time in the world to think about it, that Loopy has none of these attributes. So how do you propose getting round that obstacle, for starters? Then there’s the question as to whether the lad is actually good enough to play in a big tournament so soon.”

  Having said his piece, O’Hara sank back in his chair, feigning exhaustion at his efforts to talk sense.

  Tim, however, was not to be put off. “I daresay much of what you sa
y is true, old cock. The Atlantic is full of snobbish nonsense, more so than anything else I’ve ever played in. Not just our own lot but lots of Brits and Americans, all top golfers mind you, but with big jobs in banking, insurance, and God alone knows what else. But so what? Loopy’s manners are as good as theirs, and he’s the obvious choice to replace me. Even if I were in the whole of my health, he would still be the best pick. As you know, he beat me easily over the Ballykissane course.”

  O’Hara looked startled. “That’s news to me. I never heard a word about it. Nor did anyone else at the club, as far as I know.”

  They both eyed Loopy, who remained silent as Tim explained, “Oh, yes, indeed he did. We played the Ballykissane course not so long ago, off the back markers just as they do for The Atlantic. He beat me four and three and won the bye as well. I wouldn’t mind, but it was his first time ever setting foot on the course. He played so well even the caddies were clapping him at the finish.”

  O’Hara looked accusingly at Loopy. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Loopy blushed, then tried to shrug it off with a diffident “You never asked, that’s why.”

  O’Hara was spluttering in disgust at anyone being so stupid as to behave like that. “Jaysus but you’re the odd fish, and no mistake! Sure, this changes everything. Now I can face up to Mr. Leo bloody Martin and tell him that our friend here not only knows the course, but he has beaten you. By how much did you say?”

  “Four and three and he played some bloody marvelous golf into the bargain. Best I ever witnessed, in fact.”

  The schoolmaster was practically beside himself with excitement. “That’s it then! All we need now is a letter from you to the committee, saying that you won’t be available for this year’s Atlantic Trophy and that you strongly recommend that Larry be your replacement in view of the fact that he has already beaten you over the Ballykissane course.”