Loopy Page 9

  “Penalties?”

  “Yes, penalties.” Leo was becoming testy from having to explain even the simplest of banking terms. Still, he reminded himself, it had to be done if his reputation was not to be ruined by this whippersnapper alerting all and sundry to his fancy footwork. “Penalties, in this instance, come in the form of surcharges.”

  He had thought to joke that these penalties were quite different from the sort Loopy was accustomed to taking for the Trabane Gaels, but decided against it. Too complex and not worth the effort. Instead he explained what surcharges were.

  “Surcharges are in addition to the penalties, so that when you add both of them on the interest charged on an unsanctioned overdraft, it all adds up very quickly, I can tell you!” A pause to let this sink in. “However, in the light of our little chat yesterday, I have decided to review your father’s account. The bank had originally viewed him as having defaulted on the loan, but that does not now appear to be the case.”

  Leo shot a glance at Loopy to make sure that he was taking all this in before pressing on. “I see there have been some repayments made, and small though they are, I am reclassifying the Lynch account from an unauthorized overdraft to the status of a regular long-term loan. All penalties charged to the original account will be canceled, and the interest rate will be substantially less.”

  Here Leo paused to adjust his glasses, which were threatening to fall off the end of his nose. “In plain English that means that with all these adjustments, the Lynch account now stands at something just short of seven hundred pounds, rather than the thousand or so that was owed to the bank when the account was in your father’s name.”

  “Does that mean, Mr. Martin, that we owe three hundred pounds less than we did ten minutes ago?”

  Martin harrumphed quite a bit before admitting, “Well, yes, you could put it like that, I suppose. Everything now depends on your mother signing these papers I have drawn up for her—oh, yes, and, of course, your discretion in that other matter, as well.”

  Now it was Loopy’s turn. “You’re trying to bribe me, aren’t you?”

  Leo turned purple, but before he could reply, Loopy continued, “We both know you cheated Tim yesterday, and now you think that you can buy my silence by taking a bit off the overdraft.”

  Leo had got his breath back by now. “How dare you, it’s nothing of the sort. If you think—”

  Loopy had found an inner strength from somewhere as he cut Leo short. “What I think, Mr. Martin doesn’t matter. What does matter is that by the end of the month I’ll have a check for three thousand pounds lodged against the account. When it is cleared, I want you to use it to cancel that overdraft and put what’s left over on deposit in my mother’s name. You can do what you like about the interest and penalties.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Loopy stood up and left. He visited the fort on his way home. As he sat cross-legged in the center of the standing stones, his mind emptied. Leo and his bank might have been a million miles away. After a while he saw his father’s face in his mind’s eye. A short man in his forties, red-faced and going thin on top. Loopy thought long and hard about his father. Would he have been proud of his son and the way he handled the banker? How would he have reacted to Leo’s change of heart? It wasn’t every day the bank reduced a debt by three hundred pounds. Would he have considered it nothing more than a lucky break—as if one of his rank outsiders had unexpectedly strolled home an easy winner? Or would he have clapped his son on the back, laughing: “Good man yourself, well done!”

  Might he buy him a pint to celebrate? Not likely, Loopy decided.

  And what of himself, Loopy wondered, what would he have done if his father were standing beside him in the fort just then? Would they have shared a laugh at Leo’s expense? Or would he have let out an ecstatic Whoopee! and playfully punched his father’s arm? Hardly, he thought. Father and son had never had anything to celebrate together, Loopy reflected sadly. As for the playful punch, it would, most likely, have been misunderstood and sparked off a real row instead. A row like the one on the night his father had slammed the door behind him and strode across the cobblestones and out of their lives, leaving a trail of debt behind him. His father had taken the easy way out without a care for his wife or family. Yet Sean Lynch for all his faults was Loopy’s father, and nothing, absolutely nothing, he told himself, could ever change that.

  Loopy wondered how he would react if his father did come back. Would he embrace him as a son should or would he act cold and distant to the man who had abandoned them? Why had his father not got in touch? Where was the money he had promised to send home as soon as he got a steady job? Probably in some bookie’s satchel. Loopy realized with a start that he had come to hate his father. Then, as he remembered the times he had seen his mother sobbing quietly when she thought no one was looking, he hated him even more. This was a memory he had blocked until now. Whether it was the exhilaration at besting Leo Martin, the strange magic of the fort, or a combination of both that had freed his mind to enter dark places that had been off limits up to this he would never know.

  Another thing he could not know was that his father was having a rough time of it in Birmingham. Anything other than the most menial of jobs was denied to him. He was forced to share a dingy room with an ever-changing cast of workers who drifted in and out like the fleas that infested the beds. The cockroaches seemed the only permanent residents as Sean tried—and failed—to pluck up courage to write home without enclosing the promised money order.

  The tingling sensation had returned. It was as if the blood in Loopy’s veins flowed faster. It was not an unpleasant feeling even if it did make him feel giddy and set the hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end. What made it so different this time was that long after he had left the fort, the tingling persisted.

  When he told Brona of his visit to the bank, he did not mention the incident of Leo and the golf ball lest she might think that he had been indulging in a little subtle blackmail. The very thought made him smile, for who would have thought that the shy and self-effacing Larry Lynch would have faced down Leo Martin in his bank? Certainly not his mother. She would have ascribed their good fortune with the hay and the bank to the goodness of God and his Blessed Mother. Yet he knew her to be nobody’s fool, and she might well have had an inkling that it had something to do with the Golf Club as well.

  In the afternoon he dropped in again to the fort on his way back to work at the Golf Club. This time he remained standing, feeling a bit ridiculous even though only a few cows, lazily chewing the cud, were there to watch him. He felt his mind empty of everything. Norbert, the hay, Leo Martin, even Maire, vanished and he was left in a weird, almost frightening void. All he could feel was a strange sense of empowerment, as if no task were too great for him to accomplish. Again the feeling persisted long after he had made his way out through the narrow gap in what had once been the ramparts of the old fairy ring.

  That afternoon as he was about to finish his stint behind the bar, Joe phoned from the driving range. “I’ve just had a cancellation. If you come up here right away, we can have almost an hour before my next lesson.”

  Loopy walked, almost ran, the half mile up the hill to where Joe stood, a solitary figure swishing a club one-handed with practiced ease. Joe handed him the driver. As Loopy set up to hit the first ball, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to tingle, exactly the same feeling as he had experienced in the fort. His mind emptied itself of everything. All he could see was the small white ball inviting him to smash it to smithereens. Instead of exploding into tiny fragments it took off like a missile.

  Joe Delany murmured, “Hit another one.”

  He did so. Several times. Each time the ball flew like an arrow, straighter and farther than ever before.

  “Okay, stop right there.” Joe’s voice sounded different. Hoarser, strained even. “We’ll just have time to play the fourteenth. Then it’s time for my next lesson.”

  Loopy had never
played with Joe up to this. It had just been a matter of hitting balls on the range with Joe offering bits of advice every now and again. This was different. He would be using Joe’s clubs, too, new and shining with grips so thick he could barely get his fingers to wrap round them. The fourteenth hole was a long par five, with the ocean on one side and mountainous sand dunes on the other. The fairway was bordered on either side by thick rough. It was pure linksland in the sense that the fairway was a narrow ribbon of green meandering through grass-covered sand dunes. Between these the pounding surf of the Atlantic could be seen—and heard.

  The hole measured just short of five hundred yards with the entrance to the green jealously guarded by two sand dunes, standing solemnly and threateningly as sphinxes. Joe Delany estimated that in today’s conditions playing into the wind, it would require three good shots to reach the green. Loopy had, however, unleashed a drive of enormous length. It was fully fifty yards beyond Joe’s, but at the very last moment, it had trickled off the fairway into the first cut of rough.

  Joe played a solid three wood for his second. It came to rest well short of the dunes protecting the green. He smiled to himself as Loopy took a four wood from his bag. The ball was lying much too low in the grass for that kind of shot. He thought of saying as much, but then decided that it would be better if Loopy found this out for himself. After a moment’s thought, Loopy put the wood back in the bag and selected an iron instead. Joe couldn’t quite see which one, but it looked like a five iron.

  With more than two hundred yards to the flag, it seemed as if Loopy were following Joe’s example and laying up short of the green. As he stood poised over the ball, Loopy again felt the tingle and the hairs prickling on the back of his neck stronger than ever. He focused every fiber of his being on the ball, or what he could see of it peeping out from the spiky dune grass that made the rough in Trabane so difficult. For a brief moment time stood still, and even the gulls swooping overhead seemed to pause in flight as the club descended, then sent tufts of grass and earth spewing in every direction. The ball exploded skyward. It cleared the big sand dune guarding the left side of the green with something to spare before disappearing from view.

  Awestruck, neither spoke for what seemed an age. Loopy still had the club in his hand when Joe asked quietly, “What iron was that?”

  “Five.”

  “Jesus, I don’t believe it. Let me see it!”

  Slamming it back in his bag, the pro strode off wordlessly. He played his third shot, a high wedge toward the hidden green. As they passed through the narrow entrance between the dunes, two balls were on the green. One lay almost thirty feet from the hole, the other less than four feet. Joe, examining the ball farthest from the hole, grunted, “Mine.”

  Loopy stood over his short putt, waiting for the tingle. None came. He missed the hole by a good two inches. Joe exhaled noisily but said nothing until they were back at the driving range. As Loopy was about to go back to the clubhouse and resume his stint behind the bar, Joe remarked casually, “I think it’s about time you learned how to putt.”

  * * *

  Some days later, his mother had two items of news for Loopy over breakfast. The Englishman had called about the hay, left a check for over three thousand pounds, and would send lorries to collect it as soon as the check had cleared. She had also had a visit from Joe Delany. He had tried as best he could to explain the unique golfing talent her son possessed. He had suggested it might be possible to make a living from golf if Loopy was prepared to work hard at the game. Joe had offered to coach Loopy free of charge in return for his helping out in the pro shop when he wasn’t on duty in the Golf Club bar. It seemed odd that Joe should approach his mother before first checking with him, but maybe, Loopy thought, that was the way Joe did his business. Anyway it was great to hear, albeit secondhand, that Joe believed Loopy had a talent for the game. It certainly beat stacking shelves and getting nothing but abuse from both Norbert and Maire, though Joe still hadn’t offered him the job personally.

  When he reported for bar duty next day, Linda said that Joe wanted a word with him on the practice range and that she would look after things until he came back. Joe was giving a lesson and indicated that Loopy should wait until it was over. Workmen were pouring concrete into shuttering as if a house were being built at one end of the practice ground. With the lesson finished, Joe strolled over and jerked a thumb in the direction of the construction.

  “The new driving range. They’re the all-weather practice bays. Should be ready by the autumn. The club wants a proper driving range, automatic ball machine, the works. Trouble is, they want me to look after it, along with everything else in this bloody place. Did your mother tell you I called out to see her?”

  Loopy nodded but said nothing.

  “Yeah, well, I told her you might, just might make a golfer. That par five we played together made up my mind. Now listen carefully ’cause I’m only going to say this just once. If you work hard, do as I say, and don’t mess around with drink or women, you might, just might, make a living from this game. Are you interested?”

  Loopy thought the question demanded something more than a nod, so he blurted out, “Yes, I am. Very much.”

  “Right.” The pro puffed his cheeks before expelling a long breath. “Here’s the deal. Like I say, I’ll say it just the once. Ready?”

  Loopy nodded, trying hard to look calm even though his heart was thumping like a jackhammer.

  “You help out in the shop and here on this driving range when it’s up and running. That means you collect the balls—I’ll show you later how it’s done—make sure the ball machine is fully loaded and working properly. Every night you empty out the machine of coins and bring them to me. When you have the balls collected, you cut the grass if it needs it. In short, you are running this facility, though you are doing it for me. In return I will coach you every day and show you everything I know. You will have free run of this practice area and all the practice balls you want for free. We’ll both review the situation at the end of every month. I’ll decide if you are working hard enough—both for me and on your game. You can decide if you want to continue on with the arrangement or pack it in—as you wish. There may come a time when I’ll have taught you all I know and you may want to go somewhere else to complete your education as a golfer. On the other hand, you may get fed up of hitting golf balls day after day and want to call the whole thing off.”

  Joe paused for breath and looked at the boy. “Well, what do you think?”

  Loopy looked at the ground first, deep in thought for a moment or two, then looked up with a grin. “When do I start?”

  “No time like the present. Get the putter out of my bag and I’ll show you how to putt.”

  Loopy could hardly wait to get home and tell Brona that the new job was in the bag. She seemed happy for him, observing that when Seamus had brought the groceries that morning, he had not been his usual cheery self. It wasn’t so much anything he had said but more what he had not said. Up to now he had always asked about the injured leg and wondered when Larry would be fit enough to play for the Trabane Gaels again. This time his remarks were confined to the weather and the difficulty in getting rid of hay at this time of year. When Brona told him that some Englishman had taken the whole lot, he merely grunted and said nothing. All of which prompted Brona to ask her son, “Did you and Seamus have a falling-out by any chance?”

  “It’s like this, Mam. Mr. Norbert has really changed since he heard I can’t play for the Gaels for a while. Nothing I do is right anymore, and everything’s my fault. What’s worse, Maire’s nearly as bad as him. Since he put her in charge of the checkout, it’s gone to her head.”

  “What do you mean ‘gone to her head’? A little bird told me you were sweet on her, is that what’s the matter?”

  Loopy reddened but stood his ground. “Whatever little bird told you that got it wrong, Mam! No, it’s just that she never stops bossing me round the place. It’s ‘Do this’ and ‘Do t
hat,’ and to tell the truth, Mam, I’m getting fed up with it.”

  He was so upset that she took his hand and squeezed it gently.

  “If you don’t like working at Norbert’s anymore, why don’t you hand in your notice? Don’t think I’ll be standing in your way. I never thought I’d hear myself saying this, but maybe you might be better off working at the Golf Club and getting lessons from that nice Mr. Delany.”

  * * *

  Breaking the news to Seamus was worse than Loopy had expected. When offered a month’s notice, Norbert preferred that he took his leave right away. “Don’t want any halfhearted sailors on my ship!” was how he put it, leaving Loopy in no doubt that the supermarket was well rid of him.

  Maire was no different. “I knew, I just knew, that you’d be joining those snobs up in the Golf Club the first chance you got.”

  This seemed unfair, especially when Maire herself was spending more and more evenings working part-time as a waitress at the club. Because both the kitchen and the dining area were some distance from the bar and the pro shop, he did not see that much of her.

  As for his mother, Brona was a different woman now. Less timid than before, she dressed better, stopping to chat with old friends on the street rather than trying to avoid them, and went to a hairdresser once a week. There was still no word from her husband, but it had been months since Loopy had last seen her quietly sobbing to herself.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Loopy was spending every spare moment he had on the practice ground hitting golf balls until his hands blistered. Brona once asked him how his golf was getting on, and he spent half an hour showing her that by just changing the position of his thumb on the golf club, he had found he could hit the ball better than ever.