Loopy Page 12

  “Write down exactly what you want me to say, will you, like a good chap. As I said earlier, letter writing is not my thing, not by a long shot. There should be a notepad on the table over there, under the magazines.”

  O’Hara did as he was asked and, when he was finished, handed the draft to Tim. “We’ll be on our way if you don’t mind. Send that letter to the committee, and I’ll see to the rest. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  As O’Hara spoke, Tim’s father appeared framed in the doorway. “Came to see how you were getting along. The doc said he wasn’t to tire himself, but I see you are already leaving. Can I offer you a drink or anything?”

  Before O’Hara could accept, Loopy responded quickly, “No thanks, Mr. Porter. I must be back in Trabane by six o’clock.”

  The older man nodded sympathetically, murmuring, “Yes. Well, maybe some other time.” Before leading them downstairs, he stopped in the hall to address Loopy.

  “Tim was telling me that you work in the bar of the Golf Club and are thinking of taking up golf as a career, is that right?”

  Loopy was taken aback. “I … I … haven’t made up my mind yet, Mr. Porter. It all depends…” His voice trailed off and the older man did not press him further. Instead Tim’s father changed the subject abruptly.

  “Either of you interested in horses at all?”

  This time O’Hara was quicker off the mark. “Yes, I am.”

  “Right, well, let me show you what’s in the stables before you go.” Turning to Loopy, Mr. Porter whispered half-apologetically, “Won’t take more than ten minutes, I promise.”

  He led the way out onto a large cobblestone courtyard surrounded by stables. Horses poked their heads through the upper section of some of the stable doors, examining the threesome with interest as their owner expounded on their breeding and prospects. O’Hara, whose only real interest in horses lay in how fast they could run and at what odds, struggled to look interested, while Loopy hung back as he tried to hide his impatience at the delay. As much to make conversation as anything else, O’Hara, struggling to show a polite interest in the tour of the stables, wondered aloud if stableboys were more difficult to come by nowadays.

  “Oh, absolutely, this blasted Celtic Tiger has everyone in the horse industry driven absolutely round the bloody bend. Impossible to get new recruits, and when you do find any, they up and leave for a better-paid job just when they are getting useful. The other thing, of course, is hay.”

  This got Loopy’s attention. “Hay?”

  “Yes, hay. In the old days we had more than we knew what to do with. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry wanted to sell us hay because the horse breeders and trainers paid more for good hay than anyone else. Now no one is making the stuff, and if they are, it’s poisoned with bloody fertilizers and God alone knows what else.”

  Loopy heard himself say confidently, as if he were doing old Sam Porter a favor rather than asking for one, “We’re in the hay business. Mind you, all of this year’s crop is sold, but you might be interested in next year’s crop. We do about fifty acres a year and it’s all for sale.”

  “Very interesting. I would be even more interested in leasing the hay meadows from you. That way I get exactly what I need. Horses are very choosy about what they eat, y’know. Some weeds actually poison them, while your cattle will chew them all day without any apparent harm.”

  Loopy nodded sagely, indicating that he was already aware of this. Thinking it impolite to pursue the matter further at this stage, he suggested that they might discuss it again some other time, but Tim’s father would have none of it.

  “I’d like to get my man to walk your farm and report back to me. If he says everything is okay—and I can see no reason why it should not be—then we can get down to business right away even though we’ll be talking about next year. That alright with you?”

  By now they had reached O’Hara’s car. “That will be just fine, Mr. Porter. You can contact me at the Golf Club most days or leave a message there and I’ll get back to you. Thanks for everything, and I hope Tim gets better real soon.”

  With that they were off down the avenue. This time the gates were activated as they approached, causing O’Hara to remark, “Must be great to have money!”

  When Loopy did not reply, O’Hara continued in pensive mood, “’Twas a good day’s work for you, anyway. If you play your cards right, that man will take all your mother’s hay for the foreseeable future. Your mother will be beside herself when she hears about it.”

  Again Loopy said nothing, staring fixedly at the road ahead.

  “You’re very quiet in yourself. What’s wrong?”

  “I dunno really! The shock, I suppose. How am I ever going to play in The Atlantic? I can’t afford the hotel. I know because I saw the rates written up on a card on the back of the bedroom door. Even if I could find a cheap bed-and-breakfast place, what about the caddy? I paid him a tenner for just one round. At least I would have if he hadn’t refused to take it from me.”

  O’Hara seemed shocked by this. “A caddy refusing to take money? Jaysus, that’s one for the book and no mistake. How did that happen?”

  “I dunno. He just said I needed it more than he did, and that he’d catch me the next time. I didn’t know what he meant by ‘next time,’ but I was afraid to ask him. I think he was half-mad, to be honest.”

  “Oh, yeah”—O’Hara remained skeptical—“he certainly sounds mad. I never before heard of a caddy refusing money—though I often heard of them looking for more than was offered to them. What did he mean by ‘next time’? I wonder.”

  “I dunno. Looks like he was right though, doesn’t it?”

  They both laughed at this, then O’Hara wondered aloud, “Does this prophet have a name?”

  “Weeshy something. I never found out what his real name was. He was real scary. Wore a big heavy coat even though it was a really hot day. He’d hand me a club and I’d be afraid to argue with him even though I was sure ’twas the wrong one.”

  “And was it?”

  “What?” Loopy had been distracted in his efforts to pass a slow-moving truck along the narrow, winding road.

  “I asked, was it the wrong club?”

  “No, that was the amazing thing, he was always right. I played out of my skin and it was as much due to him as it was to myself. Especially with the putts.”

  “You mean he gave you the right line?”

  “You bet he did. The first few times I ignored him and followed my own line.” Loopy laughed out loud at the memory. “I missed a few short ones early on in the round and he got sour as hell. After that, I did everything he said. Went around in two over par, actually.”

  “Pretty good, but not good enough to win The Atlantic in good weather.”

  “No? What usually wins it?”

  “Depending on the wind, it’s usually around level par in decent weather.”

  “Do you really think the club will pick me for it?”

  “Hard to say. All I can promise is that it won’t be for want of trying.”

  After that they sank into a comfortable silence until the road sign announced proudly that were entering the town of Trabane.

  * * *

  The committee room had a small service hatch connected to the bar, which was closed while the meeting was in progress. The captain of the club was ex officio chairman of the general committee. That a captain’s tenure lasted just a year was a consolation to the eight committee members seated round the table as they endured with varying degrees of impatience his long-windedness. Those who had voted him to this high office had expected a lawyer, usually well paid for his words, to use them sparingly when no financial reward was on offer. This was not so.

  Rising to his feet on the stroke of eight o’clock, the captain prefaced his remarks by advising his audience to stock up on their refreshments before the hatch was shut. Twenty minutes later he was still stressing the extreme gravity of what they were about to discuss without actually spelling out exact
ly what it was.

  O’Hara, who had already left the room once for a refill, was about to repeat the exercise. By now the only one paying the slightest attention to the proceedings was Leo Martin. In his capacity as honorary treasurer and vice president elect he was not going to give anyone cause to think he might not be the automatic choice for the presidency at the next Annual General Meeting. This had occurred just once in the history of the club, when the vice president had run off with someone’s wife to make a fresh start in Western Australia. Leo had no intention of joining him on the roll of infamy. He was only too well aware that the directors of Allied Banks of Ireland approved of their staff playing an active role in their local community.

  In the coming year it would be vital that Leo be in a position to influence local opinion when the bank announced the closure of its Trabane branch. This had been confirmed that very morning. A registered letter, the contents being far too explosive to entrust to any other form of communication, had landed on Leo’s desk. His bank was indeed short-listed for closure. The letter stressed that the information was strictly confidential and for Leo’s eyes only. When the news of the closure had been released and the initial outcry had died down, it would be Leo who would make soothing noises to the objectors, and where better to do so than from the presidency of Trabane Golf Club? A quiet word here, a veiled threat there, and the closure of the bank branch would prove nothing more than a nine-days wonder. A few important clients, such as Edward Linhurst and Seamus Norbert, would be “looked after” in the nearest branch eleven miles away. Then, and only then, could Leo pack his bags and move to Dublin, where, he was sure, a broader stage awaited his undoubted talents. It would also, he hoped, cheer up Rosa, who had been moaning about what a dump Trabane was ever since she had set foot in the place. Though, he now reminded himself, she had not been banging on quite so much about it since taking up golf.

  Such were the thoughts going through Leo’s mind as he watched the captain droning on and on, pausing just long enough to take a sip from a pint of Guinness. Wiping the creamy froth from his wispy mustache, the captain cleared his throat more noisily than usual, a hopeful sign that he might at long last be coming to the point.

  “So it now behooves me to address the vexed question of who we are to select to represent us in next month’s Atlantic Trophy.”

  The captain stopped to further refresh himself from the pint as O’Hara’s stage whisper of “And about shagging time, too” echoed off the walls of the small committee room. The captain chose to treat this insult from an already half-drunk schoolmaster with the disdain it deserved.

  “It is my duty first of all to read you a letter I have received from Tim Porter, who—as you will no doubt be well aware—has so ably represented us for the past several years—”

  “Never got past the second round, if that’s what you mean by ably represented!”

  This time there was no ignoring O’Hara, halfway down on his third large whiskey and showing all the signs of it. “Mr. O’Hara, you will have ample time to give us the benefit of your thoughts on the matter later. In the meantime I would be more than grateful if you allowed me to get on with it.”

  This occasioned a deep sigh that seemed to come from near the soles of O’Hara’s shoes, and a fainter, though still audible, encouragement to “Get on with it so, for Jaysus’ sake!”

  If O’Hara were not supposed to be taking the minutes of the meeting—no one else being prepared to do so—the captain might have taken him up on that last comment. Instead he again ignored it.

  “Now where was I?… Oh, yes, Tim Porter’s letter.”

  With one hand he rummaged among the papers at his elbow, using the other to raise what remained of the pint to his lips. He drained it, leaving a succession of creamy rings inside the empty glass.

  “Here we are. I’d better read it out to you:

  Dear Captain,

  Sorry to have to tell you that I’m laid low with a kidney infection and my doctor assures me that I will be confined to bed for at least a month. That being so, I have no chance whatsoever of playing in the Atlantic Trophy—in the event of the committee being kind enough to select me yet again.

  However, I would very much like to recommend someone who is well qualified to take my place and who, I have every confidence, will properly represent our club in such a prestigious event. He is Larry Lynch and you all know him well. A while back I played him in a level match over the Ballykissane course and he beat me easily—four and three. He showed a great liking for the golf course and I confidently expect him to do well there again. I can further assure you that he will represent our club most ably as his behavior both on and off the course is beyond reproach.

  I leave the matter in your able hands, secure in the knowledge that you will act—as always—in the best interests of the club.

  Yours sincerely,

  Tim Porter

  The captain waited for a moment for the import of Tim’s letter to sink in, then looked straight at Leo Martin as he spoke.

  “Well, gentlemen, there’s no doubt who young Porter thinks should represent us. Even though, as Pat O’Hara reminded us, Tim never advanced further than the second round, there can be no doubt that he represented Trabane in a proper fashion. He dresses well, speaks well, and enhances the image of Trabane Golf Club wherever he goes—”

  “Mr. Captain!” The interruption came, as might have been anticipated, from O’Hara. “Mr. Captain, I trust that you are not in any way implying that young Lynch might not, as you so elegantly put it, enhance our image by representing us at Ballykissane! You and the rest of the committee must surely know that he is the best golfer in this club, even though he has only been playing a relatively short time. I myself—”

  It was the schoolmaster’s turn to be interrupted as Leo cut in, “Mr. Captain, if I may interject—”

  O’Hara was not to be put off so easily and countered, “Mr. Captain, I believe I have the floor. May I suggest friend Leo wait his turn!”

  The captain remained calm. “Gentlemen, please!… As a matter of fact I still have the floor. I had not finished when first Mr. O’Hara and then Mr. Martin wished to speak. I assure them both that they will have ample time to express their views—but only after I have said what I want to say.”

  O’Hara’s apology was not as contrite as the captain might have wished when he confessed, “I beg your pardon, Captain. After half an hour or so, I mistakenly believed that you had concluded your remarks. I can only crave your forgiveness.” With that he went to the serving hatch and returned shortly thereafter with a full glass.

  Leo, ever mindful of his position as president-in-waiting, muttered a more intimate. “Sorry, skipper.”

  “That’s all right, gentlemen. I’ll throw the discussion open to everyone in a moment, but I just want to emphasize, and I can’t emphasize it too much, that whoever we choose, his behavior off the course is just as important as his accomplishments on the course. What we don’t want is someone who might let the side down. Other than that, and all things being equal, I suppose we have to pick the best player, and, let’s face it, we will not find a stronger player than Tim’s candidate, young Lynch. Now, Leo, you have something to say.”

  O’Hara again interjected, this time more heatedly, “Mr. Captain, I had the floor long before Leo.”

  “All in good time, Pat. Let Leo have his say first, then you can come in immediately after him, and then, of course, anyone else who feels they might have something to contribute to the discussion.”

  Leo rose to his feet, delighted to have jumped the gun on O’Hara, whom he heartily detested.

  “I will be as brief as possible. As you know, my bank has the honor of sponsoring the Atlantic Trophy. I’m sure you will agree that it is a special event in certain respects. As you well know, the other major amateur tournaments are by qualification. Those wishing to play in them must either have a sufficiently low handicap or else have qualified to play in them through a series of elimina
ting rounds. Either way, the organizers have no say in who plays in their tournaments just so long as the entrant has qualified in the specified manner. I would remind you, however, that entry into The Atlantic is by invitation only. You can have the best amateur in the world in your club, but if he doesn’t measure up to the required standards, then he will not be invited.”

  With that, Leo sat down, and the captain indicated to Pat O’Hara that he might now have his say.

  “Captain, we should all be grateful to friend Leo for reminding us of the rather unusual entry requirements for The Atlantic. No doubt he has a special insight into the minds of the sponsors, being one of their valued employees. That said, there can be no argument as to whether young Lynch is the best golfer in our club. Tim Porter’s letter leaves no doubt on that score. Anyone who doubts his word can check with Joe Delany, who says quite simply that Larry Lynch is the best amateur he has ever seen, full stop. So, gentlemen”—he paused for a moment to look around the table at the other members of the committee in an effort to gauge their mood before he came to the nub of his argument—“what we are really talking about here, even though no one so far has dared to admit it, is whether young Lynch’s manners and background are up to scratch. I see my friend Leo shaking his head at this, but nevertheless I am sure that most of you will agree with me on this. Now I’ll grant you that there never was any problem in that regard with Tim Porter. He has a boarding school education, knows what knife or fork to use and holds them in the approved manner. He knows a good wine from a bad one and, even more important, can pronounce their names properly. That’s all well and good and no doubt pleases the sponsors of The Atlantic no end. He is also, more than likely, a client in good standing of the bank, though we can hardly expect friend Leo to take us into his confidence in that regard. As far as young Lynch is concerned, I am led to believe that he, too, has an account with Allied Banks of Ireland, so that should not be a problem.”