Loopy Page 15

  When some of the club members in Trabane urged Loopy to change his grip on the golf club to a more orthodox method and thereby remove the loop that was part and parcel of his backswing, O’Hara would explode. Done with swearing, he would then glare at the individual bold enough to suggest the change to orthodoxy and remind him in no uncertain terms that Ireland’s greatest golfer had precisely the same loop at the top of his backswing. O’Hara would end the discussion by snarling that what was good enough for Jimmy Bruen was good enough for him—and Larry Lynch.

  It seemed, however, that O’Hara had not seen the portrait of his idol, for he was already on his way to the bar.

  As Loopy elbowed his way through the swing doors, he caught a glimpse of O’Hara’s back disappearing round the corner at the far end of the corridor. He hurried after him, but was momentarily distracted by a scorecard dated August 1947, which was in a small gilt frame and spotlit by a powerful lamp. It was the course record for Ballykissane before alterations to the layout had consigned it to history. The score was 65, and the player was none other than Jimmy Bruen. Another omen? Hardly, he decided. It was ridiculous to imagine that the ghost of a long-dead golfer could help him now—even if they shared a “loop” in their swings. Nonetheless he felt strangely elated as he strode confidently into the public bar.

  Public, of course, meant that it served those who were not members but had passed the scrutiny of the doorman. The bar was even more like a cathedral than the locker rooms. Again there were acres of wooden paneling on every wall, with enormous French windows looking out onto the putting green and, in the distance, the first tee. Some of the windows were open, allowing the ocean breeze to dissipate the pall of tobacco smoke coming from tall, winged armchairs of deep red leather dotted randomly over the huge polished floor of the bar. Most of the parties were hidden, sunk deep in the plush leather, behind newspapers, though others were grouped around low tables and talking animatedly among themselves. Loopy made his way to the bar, where he took a stool next to O’Hara, who was already halfway down a tumbler of whiskey.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” Loopy confided. “It reminds me of the courthouse I had to go to the day my father…” His voice trailed off. The memory of that day of ignominy he preferred not to recall.

  “The day they were suing him for the money, you mean?”

  “Yeah.” The edge to Loopy’s voice did not escape O’Hara.

  “Don’t know why that bothers you so much. Half of Trabane have been up in that court at one time or another. I was up myself—”

  “I know. I know. For drunken driving or something. That’s nowhere near as bad as not being able to pay your debts.”

  O’Hara gave a hollow laugh that seemed to come all the way from the soles of his feet. “H-m-m-ph! Glad you think so. There are plenty who think different, my lad. Don’t worry about it, for God’s sake. He didn’t go to jail or anything like that.”

  “Only for my mother standing up in court and pleading with the judge to go easy on him, he would have done. Or so Mr. O’Sullivan, the solicitor, told us afterwards. Not that I gave a damn what sentence they gave him. They could have locked him up and thrown away the key as far as I’m concerned. I never want to see him again as long as I live. ’Twas my mother I was worried about.”

  O’Hara waited for a moment or two before dropping the subject with a gentle “I know, lad, I know.”

  In the silence that followed, both of them took stock of their surroundings.

  The walls of the bar were easily twenty feet high. One was adorned with plaques listing the names in gold leaf of former captains and presidents and the years in which they had held office. Elsewhere there were framed photographs of previous winners of The Atlantic. Some of the earlier ones were sepia prints of knickerbockered worthies with long mustaches and even longer double-barreled names and a sprinkling of Right Hons. thrown in for good measure. Loopy found it almost a relief to see that last year’s winner was a blond youth in his twenties with a severe crew cut and a Harvard sweater, whose name, according to the caption beneath the photograph, was Albert Neumann. A scorecard more modestly framed than Bruen’s proclaimed that Neumann was the holder of the course record for the present layout.

  Loopy went over to the scorecard to examine it more closely. This was a much more recent scorecard than Bruen’s. A closer look revealed that it was, in fact, from The Plate of the previous year, the competition that he had been told no one took really seriously since it was merely a warm-up round for The Atlantic! Well, it seemed that the crew-cut Albert Neumann, had taken it seriously indeed because he had gone around Ballykissane in three under par. Impressed by this feat, Loopy rejoined O’Hara, who was already well down on his second whiskey. As they sipped in silence, out of curiosity Loopy picked up a typewritten sheet, one of several strewn around the bar counter, and glanced idly at it. It was the draw for the first round of The Atlantic. The peace and tranquillity of the bar were shattered by a startled yelp. Loopy had found his name right at the bottom of the draw.

  “I’m up against last year’s winner in the very first round. There’s his picture over there on the wall. What’s more, he holds the course record!”

  If Loopy was expecting any consolation from O’Hara, he was to be disappointed. “Just as well you stopped off at that famous fort of yours then, isn’t it? You’d better pray that its effects last for at least another forty-eight hours!”

  With that, the schoolmaster put the glass to his lips and drained it in two quick gulps. Looking at Loopy’s half-full glass of Coca-Cola, he added reproachfully, “Better finish that up quick. We don’t want to be late for Maggie. My sister-in-law never tires of saying over and over again that punctuality is the courtesy of kings. How she came by that bit of misinformation is anybody’s guess.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next day dawned bright but windy. The sun ducked in and out from behind clouds that looked like giant wads of cotton wool. Such hide-and-seek constantly changed the ocean from duck-egg blue to a menacing gray, speckled with white horses driven by offshore gusts—then back again. This volatile weather cocktail was clearly visible from the bathroom of Margaret’s house, which overlooked the sea. Loopy was shaving with great care for he wanted to look his best when he strode to the first tee, wearing his new golfing outfit emblazoned with the crest of Trabane Golf Club. He could hear O’Hara shuffling around his room, preparing to confront another day. At least he wouldn’t have a hangover, Loopy reflected. Margaret ran a dry ship and a religious one as well. The night before they had barely finished a meal of boiled mutton, cabbage, and potatoes when she’d announced that they would say the rosary.

  Moving into the sitting room, they’d knelt on the carpet, facing the armchairs they had been sitting on earlier. Loopy lowered his head and droned the responses in a singsong voice he hadn’t used since his earliest days at the National School. Margaret led the prayers, in a high-pitched, nasal voice that made Loopy want to giggle. His and O’Hara’s role was a to chime in with the responses. As with the golf swing, in this, timing was everything. To begin the response before Margaret had finished would make her feel that she was being unduly hurried. To come in late was just as bad, implying that the attention of both men was wandering and not on what clearly was, for Margaret, the crowning moment of the day.

  It came as something of surprise to discover that when the last Gloria of the fifth and final decade of the rosary was completed, the performance was, in fact, only getting into stride. Margaret went on to solicit numerous favors and blessings from a collection of saints, many of whom Loopy had never heard of before. Though her approach seemed scattershot at first, it soon became obvious that she believed there was safety in numbers when seeking saintly intercession on her behalf. Loopy noticed with regret that Andrew, the patron saint of golf, was not on Margaret’s shopping list. As he waited for the rosary to end, Loopy wondered idly if he might yet have cause to invoke Andrew’s saintly help before his stay in Ballykissane
was over.

  At breakfast, they discussed their plans for the day. Margaret was going to mass in the local church. There, she promised, she would pray for them both that they would emerge unscathed from the pagan stronghold of the golf club. To her, it was a bastion of privilege, inside whose walls she would not venture in the unlikely event of her ever being invited to do so. Worse still, it was a nest of Protestant and Presbyterian vipers waiting to lure the likes of an impressionable Loopy away from the one true faith. To protect them both from such blandishments, she sprinkled holy water from a bottle on their shoulders before hurrying off to mass.

  With relief, Loopy watched her go. When O’Hara had described her as a “lighting bitch,” he had not lied. The house was, like herself, a monument to rectitude. No sooner had he or O’Hara risen from a chair but Margaret was over, like a flash, to pat the cushion back into shape. If as much as a crumb fell from the kitchen table, she would rise from her seat wordlessly and retrieve it with brush and scoop. Then with a self-pitying sigh, she would deposit the errant crumb into the pedal-bin. The bin had a crocheted cover that matched the tea cozy. Breakfast consisted of cereal, tea, a boiled egg, and one slice of toast. As O’Hara remarked while she was out of earshot, it was hardly the breakfast of champions, vowing that from then on they would breakfast at the golf club.

  When they reached the golf course, the flagsticks were bending in the gale blowing in off the ocean. As good as his word, Weeshy awaited them, huddled in his familiar long coat as he sheltered behind the caddy master’s hut. Loopy grasped his hand and introduced him to O’Hara. Weeshy responded by way of a grunt and what might have been the merest hint of a nod. As O’Hara unloaded his golf bag from the car and went to see about hiring a trolley to carry it, Loopy and his caddy went to the locker room to retrieve Loopy’s clubs.

  On the first tee, Weeshy seemed to be the only one present who was suitably dressed for the weather. Though he was wearing the same old heavy overcoat as before, now his neck was swathed in several scarves. Instead of trainers he wore rubber Wellingtons, though no rain had yet fallen.

  The starter called, “Laurence Lynch of Trabane Golf Club and partner!”

  They were off. O’Hara struck a safe three wood down the middle of the fairway. Loopy took out the new driver Joe had given him and, after a few tentative practice swings, hit a long but far from straight ball off the tee. It finished deep in the dune grass and tucked neatly in behind a clump of heather. Loopy’s first attempt to extricate himself from the rough failed miserably. Though he dislodged a sizable chunk of Ballykissane, leaving a divot big enough to bury a fair-sized cat and wreaking mayhem on the heather, the golf ball scarcely moved at all. O’Hara was too far away to witness this disaster. As for Weeshy, he merely grunted, this time more forcefully, but said nothing.

  Loopy’s next attempt was more successful in that the ball, again followed by a thick wedge of turf, just made it to the edge of the fairway. This left him with a long iron for his fourth shot to the first green. To his credit, he caught the three iron flush on the ball. It cut through the wind like a hot knife through butter, finding the front portion of the green but still a longish way from the pin. Weeshy maintained a stony silence, not even offering to point out the line of the long first putt. More by luck than skill, Loopy stroked the putt with just the right pace, but misread the line by five feet. He was relieved to see his next putt stagger into the hole. He had carded a horrendous six, two over par. O’Hara, who had charted a steadier course down the middle, knocked his ball along the fairway to reach the green in three, taking two putts to card a highly respectable—for him—five.

  “One up,” he announced to no one in particular, and strode purposefully to the second tee. This was a difficult, downhill par three, which was halved in fours. O’Hara still had the honor at the next tee and struck off first. Again he scuttled the ball a short distance along the fairway. Loopy duplicated his drive off the first tee by hitting the ball a tremendous distance into the wind. For most of its flight his ball maintained a low trajectory, keeping it above the narrow fairway yet below the main force of the wind. However, toward the end of its flight, it suddenly gained height and was caught by a crosswind that unceremoniously dumped it in the second cut of rough. This time there was no heather to contend with, but the dune grass prevented clean contact between the club and the ball. Still, Loopy told himself, he was within a hundred yards of the pin.

  Since they had started out, Weeshy had not uttered a single intelligible word. He confined himself to a selection of grunts, but these were growing increasingly animated. They became even more so when Loopy plucked a pitching wedge from the bag. Weeshy retreated backward from the ball, clucking angrily to himself and glaring at Loopy and his choice of club, leaving no doubt as to his feelings.

  Determined not to be intimidated by this, Loopy stayed with his choice of club. It was, he reminded himself, supposed to be a practice round, a warm-up for the tournament proper. To hell with Albert Neumann and his course record. These college boys, he told himself, had the time and the money to get in twenty practice rounds before The Plate, never mind the tournament proper. What’s more, they could afford to stay in The Royal Hotel, where, he knew from experience, the breakfast alone was sufficient to keep a man going for the rest of the day, unlike Margaret’s spartan offering.

  As he squared up to the ball, he tried to banish from his mind that, on the opening hole, pretty much the same shot had ended in disaster. He tried to think positive, reminding himself that this time there was no heather to contend with and the green was much nearer.

  He exhaled slowly in an effort to calm his jangling nerves. Taking a deliberately slow practice swing before addressing the barely visible ball, he was only too aware of Weeshy’s eyes drilling twin bullet holes in his back. He flicked the club downward in a steep curve, just as Joe Delany had taught him to do when digging the ball out of really thick rough. He prayed that the sharp leading edge of the pitching wedge would slice through the wiry dune grass, causing the ball to pop up out of the dense undergrowth and float in a lazy arc to the green. He even opened the clubface a touch more than usual to encourage the scything action that would prevent the blade of the pitching wedge from getting entangled in the grass before making contact with the ball.

  However, the dune grass at Ballykissane made a nonsense of his best effort. The ball broke free but only just. It flew only a few feet—flopping down again like an exhausted bird into lighter rough, not much nearer to the green. Exasperated, Loopy cried out in a strangled voice, “Will someone please tell me what I am doing wrong?”

  Though the question was yelled at the sky, Weeshy saw his chance. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong, young fella. You’re not hitting the fairway, that’s what’s wrong. Unless you’re on the fairways round here, you can throw your hat at The Atlantic, anyways.”

  Looped stared at the ground for a while, then looked up at Weeshy. “This new driver, I hit it great on the practice range back home. I was sure it would work out here.”

  Weeshy gave him a scowl, grunting, “These newfangled drivers are more temperamental than Old Moll herself. You can’t just come here with any old driver, y’know. What you need is one that was built for this course—one that keeps the ball low and straight, anyways. That contraption of yours is ballooning the ball up all over the place and getting it caught in the wind. Just go back to your old one and we’ll be right as rain.”

  Loopy again stared at the ground, more crestfallen than ever. “I can’t. I shattered the head while I was practicing back home. My boss gave me this one instead. Said it was the best on the market.”

  “The dearest, mebbe. Sure as hell it’s not the best for ’round here, anyways. You’re rightly banjaxed without your old one, that’s for certain. You’re hitting that yoke”—here Weeshy pointed disgustedly at the offending club—“all over the bloody place. Leave in your bag for the rest of the round. Use the spoon.”

  “The spoon?”

&n
bsp; Loopy was completely mystified. By now Weeshy was almost beside himself with fury.

  O’Hara, who had played his shot from the fairway, came over to see what was wrong. “Weeshy means the three wood. It used to be called a spoon when I started playing the game.”

  For the rest of the round, Loopy struggled round the course, using the unfamiliar three wood off the tee. What he lost in distance, he more than gained in accuracy. Now that he was playing his approach shots from the fairway rather than the rough, his game improved as the round progressed, but to nowhere near the level at which he would offer anything more than a token resistance to the experienced Neumann. Nevertheless, Weeshy seemed in much better humor by the time they played out the last hole. Loopy had blasted out of a deep bunker and sunk a tricky downhill putt to halve the match with O’Hara, a feat that earned an appreciative grunt from the caddy.

  They shook hands with each other as they left the eighteenth green. It was just after one o’clock and O’Hara was talking in terms of lunch. Even had they so wished, Weeshy could not have joined them because caddies were not allowed to set foot inside the clubhouse. It did not matter, for Weeshy had other plans for his man. He beckoned Loopy over to him with the crook of a finger and, out of earshot of O’Hara, muttered vehemently, “If ye want to have any chance at all against the Yank, ye’d better listen to me here and now. I didn’t want to be telling you what you’re doing wrong out on the course—anyways that’s not my job.”

  “Tell me now, so. It’s the driver, isn’t it?”

  Weeshy nodded. “Yes, yes, that driver’s no bloody good to you. Not here, anyways. Not for this kind of course with narrow fairways and thick rough. You saw yourself that once you got the ball on the fairway off the tee, you were fine. Trouble is, using the spoon means you’re leaving yourself too far from the green.”