‘Righto. Ball washers sorted. Let me see what’s next.’ Peckers
Wood’s President Harry Bashit peered over his specs at the other
men in the golf club’s main study, taking in what he’d be faced
with the coming year. Standing to his left: Ben Chipperfield, the
soon to be appointed Golf Club Captain. A handsome, dark
skinned, twenty-something oozing confidence, Ben’s hands
hung loosely in his trouser pockets. His sharp shaven dark
skin was in stark contrast to the bright polo necked shirt under
the seemingly casually thrown over jumper, emphasizing the
broad square shoulders, pulled backwards. Trying hard to look
casually indifferent, but today overdoing it, turning the usual
compelling attraction into annoying cock sureness, causing a
niggle of foreboding to creep up the President’s spine.
Bashit turned his head slightly, focusing on his Secretary
Reggie Rough. Colourless, is what came to mind when zooming
in on the pasty blob in front of him. Blond hair, wax like face
with the beige sports jacket and slacks blended in. Huddled in
one of the floral-patterned chintz chairs, Rough resembled a
mound of pale-yellow mashed potato shoved to the far side of
an abandoned plate, rejected, with no other destiny than to be
scraped onto a heap of leftovers, ready for a passel of vicious
hungry pigs to feed on.
Poor chap. Bashit shook his head internally, wishfully
thinking the surge of adrenaline caused by the exciting new
responsibility might light some fire in his young Secretary’s
balls. Perhaps he should order his old crony Lieutenant Retired
Bushrod to slap these boys into shape, push them around a bit
before the season really started. Bashit quickly dismissed the
idea, noticing Bushrod theatrically pulling a dog hair from
his sleeve, the corners of his fleshy lips pulled down, a look of
intense horror in his beady eyes.
Good grief. Bloody drama queen.
The President zeroed in on the task ahead of him, knowing
he had built up the tension to an almost unbearable level. But he
just couldn’t resist prolonging the obvious agony a little longer
by slowly feeding the last bit of the apple cake to his dog Percy,
wickedly wallowing in the misery his extended intermezzo was
causing the others.
But the fun had to end. Time to move on. ‘Ben Chipperfield.’
His clipped voice whipped through the heavy atmosphere.
‘Congratulations. Club Captain it is.’
A collective sigh of relief rippled through the study. Bashit
wiped his hand on his crisp linen napkin, and smiled – ever so
slightly - before he reached towards his old fountain pen waiting
for him on the desk’s cracked green leather top. ‘When I figure
out where to sign this retched thing, that is.’
The two younger men exchanged a quick look. ‘It’s righthand
side, bottom. Sir,’ said Reggie Rough, pointing towards
the piece of paper.
‘Don’t just sit there, Roughie!’ Bashit thundered, using
the nickname for his Secretary that had stuck with him since
boarding school. ‘I didn’t appoint you to just dangle and hover.’
Roughie stumbled towards him. ‘Please allow me to assist
you,’ he said, turning the page and pointing at the dotted line,
the tremble in his voice synchronizing perfectly to his shaking
index finger.
‘Right,’ President Bashit grumbled. ‘Good show.’
The fountain pen flowed over the paper while the bold
signature appeared, slowly but surely. ‘Fetch my stick, Bushrod,’
the President ordered, making the club’s treasurer stand to
attention, ‘so I can stand up while I shake young Chipperfield’s
hand.’
Ben stood and grabbed the old palm that was stretched
out to him. ‘Thank you very much, President Bashit. I am so
proud.’
‘So you should be. Just make certain I won’t regret signing
that piece of paper. Make Peckers Wood Golf Club proud
by getting that Best Regional Team’s Medal back where it
belongs. Here. In our prize cabinet.’ Bashit pointed towards
his chest and stabbed it a couple of times before he continued.
‘Charmers was useless during his year, and coming in second
was bloody unworthy to our reputation.’ Bashit warmed his
hands by the blazing fire, feeling a shiver pulsate through his
body. ‘Rather chilly today.’ He looked towards his fellow board
members and the newly appointed Club Captain, wiping
sweat from their foreheads. ‘Are you alright, boys? You seem
flustered.’
‘We’re fine, sir. Just a tad warm in here, that’s all.’ Roughie
felt the drops trickling down his tight collar, his neck so
bloated from the heat that his tie felt like a noose, making it
near impossible to swallow the rising bile, thinking it must be a
hundred degrees in the President’s study. ‘Could we have a word
about our next meeting now, sir? The one with Mrs Van Dycke
and Miss Hackkett?,’ he asked surreptitiously, now perspiring
heavily. ‘It seems a little complicated, the whole issue.’
‘Complicated?,’ Bushrod piped. ‘Bloody nuisance you mean.’
The President ignored the Treasurer’s comment, leaned on
his walking stick and hobbled towards the window. This side
of the room had the best view of the club house, showing the
golf club’s first tee at its prime, surrounded by white and mauve
hydrangeas, in full bloom, and the fairway, wide with oak trees
all the way up to the elevation of the green. At the moment,
this idyllic scene was obscured by that young Hackkett girl. As
she bent down to tee up her ball, the back of her long slim legs
beamed towards him. Her bottom stuck out while she was taking
her stance, and under that tight top, her bosom showed itself
in her back swing, disappearing in her follow through. Bashit
sighed and shook his head. How different from the picture his
father would have seen before him.
A deep breath filled his lungs, and he exhaled, forcing
himself to remain calm. Looking back at bygone times wasn’t
the answer, so he might as well be open to this whole palaver.
‘What are your thoughts about these ladies playing the course
so much lately?’
Roughie mopped his brow again, trying to buy time to find a
right response that wouldn’t ignite the President’s temper into a
raging fire. ‘Well, can’t say I’m overly thrilled by the whole idea.’
He paused again slightly, thinking he actually hadn’t given it
much thought. ‘But what choice do we have? It is what it is,
nowadays.’ As Roughie answered, he realized that he hadn’t
encountered enough women on the course to actually say
anything plausible about it. ‘We might as well try and make the
best of it?’
The words came out cautiously while he slowly joined
the President at the window, halting a good foot behind him.
Together they watched Philly Hackkett walk towards the green,
pick up her ball and set off towards the car park.
‘At least we don’t allow them in our quarters.’ Bushrod
snorted. ‘Do you know there are clubs where they roam all over
the entire club house, by themselves?’
Good Lord. Perish the thought. President Bashit shook his
head and turned his eyes to the first fairway again, following the
young woman walking back towards the car park. ‘How is our
candidate Lady Captain, Miss Hackkett doing, Chipperfield? I
gather you and her are getting on quite nicely?’ President Bashit
suddenly spun round and stared at Ben, who quickly averted his
eyes. ‘I heard some rumours about you two being more than
friends. Whatever that means this day and age.’
‘Yes, President. That is one item Roughie and I wanted to
talk to you about.’ Ben said, guardedly. ‘Sorry you had to hear it
on the grapevine.’ The embarrassment briskly disappeared, and
the familiar arrogance was back. ‘But please let me point out
that my relationship with Miss Hackkett will in no way cloud my
judgment on the first Lady Captain’s future accomplishments,’
he assured the President, holding his head up high. ‘So, I
thought it might be wise to talk about strategy, about what we
expect from such a position?’
‘Expect? Strategy? From a woman?’ Bushrod’s voice came
up again. ‘Not being a pain in the back side. That’s all as far as
I’m concerned.’ A deep grunt escaped his throat. ‘Why should
we care about what women are up to? Let them be, for goodness
sake. As long as they keep to themselves and don’t bother us
with their nonsense.’
‘I agree.’ Bashit’s head bent towards his Secretary, who was
back in his usual seat, in his usual slumped position. ‘Any input
on that strategy, my dear fellow?’
Roughie felt his cheeks go bright red. Input? He never needed
to give strategical input before? And now that the subject was on
women, he suddenly was being pushed. The sweat started to gush
from his pores again. His mouth opened and closed, not finding
the words that should come out to add something constructive.
‘Chipperfield? Any input?’ The President’s chin went up, as
if he was trying to mimic Ben’s posture.
Ben wiped the back of his hand over his face. ‘Well, I was
hoping to put some goals towards the proposed Lady Captain.
To see how she goes?’
‘Good lord.’ Bushrod sat down on the Chesterfield reading
chair next to the fire place, his movement causing the old leather
to grunt, like a muffled objection to the heavy weight. ‘You
two don’t have clue when it comes to handling women, now do
you?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Hoping women set and
achieve goals is nothing more than delayed disappointment.
They’re not capable of forward thinking, you know.’
‘They can’t help it.’ The President’s walking stick pointed
towards Ben and Roughie. ‘Their heads and brains are
smaller than ours,’ Bashit proclaimed, while thumping the
expensive silk carpet with his walking stick. ‘But let me tell
you, with females, there is one strategy that never fails. It’s
the pretend strategy.’ President Bashit’s voice lowered to
a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Just pretend to listen, pretend to
involve, give them something trivial to occupy their minds,
pretend it’s something hugely important and then just ignore
them.’ A wagging finger came towards Ben. ‘Trust me, it
prevents a lot of headaches.’
Roughie parted his lips, longing for the courage to speak,
but his voice again didn’t want to come.
‘Anything else, Roughie? I see you are, at least, tempted
to utter some words?’ President Bashit sat up and flicked
through the notes in front of him, trying not to show his rising
impatience and resume the business of continuing the meeting
in a professional manner. ‘We will deal with this women
matter later this afternoon. As for now, Roughie, do you have
something positive to share with us, to end this trivia?’
‘No, sir,’ Roughie whispered, trying to get up from his
chair, but stumbling on account of his wobbling knees. ‘I think
we’ve cleared everything.’ He steadied himself, holding on to
the chair’s back, letting the crisp, dry touch of the chintz cool
down his burning hands.
‘We have?’ President Bashit turned his papers. ‘I am quite
sure incoming correspondence is on the agenda for today.’ He
tapped his index finger on the desk. ‘Yes. Here it is.’ He glanced
at the trembling man in front of him, feeling the familiar sense
of rising impatience. God, how he hated sloppiness. If only
Roughie would sit down, stop hovering and get on with it.
‘Yes. Of course it is. Very well.’ Roughie swallowed, realizing
postponing looming trouble would get him nowhere. ‘I think,
we have the thank you letter from the widow Spencer-Downe.
She really was touched by the little wreath and kind letter we
sent, and she would appreciate it if the credit note for the leftover
six-month cost could be sent to her urgently. With the
actual reimbursement, of course.’
‘Credit note? Reimbursement?’ Bashit inquired, exchanging
a quick look with Bushrod.
‘Yes, what’s that supposed to mean?,’ Bushrod asked,
obviously flabbergasted. ‘Are you saying we have to pay back his
remaining fee? On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds he’s unable to play due to circumstances,’
Roughie explained, feeling extremely uncomfortable. ‘The
circumstance being, he’s…,’ Roughie voice turned into an
embarrassed whisper, ‘…well, you know, deceased.’
‘Yes, I think we do realize the poor man is dead, Roughie.’
President Bashit’s face turned an angry shade of red. ‘Bushrod,
did you know about this? Is it in our rules?’
‘I haven’t the foggiest, Bashit. Sorry. Haven’t seen or touched
the financial rule book in a hundred years,’ replied Bushrod,
clearly mystified. ‘But I will look into it.’
‘Good,’ Bashit said. ‘And please, sometime this century, if it’s
not too much bother. If we have to reimburse every member that
kicks the bucket before the 31st of December over the coming
years we’ll be bankrupt before we know it.’ Bashit glanced at his
watch and tapped it. ‘Chop chop, there’s more to cover, and I
haven’t all day.’
‘Right.’ Roughie slowly released his grip from the chair’s
comfortable steadiness and let himself slide back in his seat,
trying to ignore the acid that seemed to be burning a hole in
his chest. He pulled an envelope out of his inside pocket, and
the piece of stationary inside appeared slowly, sticking to his
trembling fingers as he tried to unfold it. He swallowed, cleared
his throat and tried to speak. ‘It’s a letter,’ he squeaked.
‘Yes. I can see that,’ Bashit sighed. ‘I’m not visually
challenged, Roughie. Who from?’
‘Lavender Thorneybush.’
‘God Almighty.’ President Bashit slumped again and raised
his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Don’t tell me the damn woman is
complaining again? What’s she on about now?’
‘She’s so frightfully nouveau, that Thorneybush hag,’
Bushrod sighed dramatically, ‘always flaunting their so-called
wealth. Absolutely ghastly. Driving that flashy electric car.’ He
shook his head and tutted. ‘And let’s face it, she’s nothing more
than a plumber’s daughter, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Quite.’ Ben agreed, as he stood up and walked towards the
window facing the first tee.
‘At least he pays her fees on time,’ President Bashit added,
‘which can’t be said of all our dear members.’ A hard stare went
towards Bushrod, who quickly began inspecting his nails.
‘Let’s have it then. What’s in the letter?’ Bashit returned to
his chair and watched the twitchy Secretary unfold the paper
further, his damp fingers nearly dropping it in front of Percy
who was snoozing gently and ignoring all the tension.
‘It’s a…,’ Roughie muttered while wiping the unrelenting
torrent from his forehead, ‘…sort of, well, resignation.’ He shook
his head, making drops fly of his forehead, narrowly missing
Bushrod. ‘Miss Thorneybush writes she is resigning from the
club. Sir.’ He passed the printed e-mail to Bashit, his right hand
now shaking uncontrollably.
What in earth was Roughie on about? Bashit snatched
the paper towards him and started reading. No-one had ever
resigned from this golf club. It must be some kind of mistake,
he thought, while his eyes moved from left to right, quickly
scanning the document in front of him.
‘Is she giving up the game?’ Bushrod asked, sounding
muddled.
‘No.’ Roughie slumped back down in his chair and rubbed
his head. ‘She’s leaving Peckers Wood for Goodlie Golf. You
know, that new club, up the road.’
The study went absolutely still, the only sound coming from
Percy, letting out a hardly audible fart while moving his nose
towards his backside and sighing contently. Bushrod started
flapping his hands violently, shooting a dark look at President
Bashit, who ignored him, looking completely lost. An oldfashioned
checkered handkerchief appeared from Roughie’s
trouser pocket, and he started mopping his brow, moaning softly.
‘Did you know about Goodlie, Bushrod? Isn’t it more your
neck of the woods, where they are?’ Ben asked carefully.
‘I heard rumours,’ Bushrod said, nodding slowly. ‘But I
never thought they were serious about developing an actual
championship course.’
A loud cackle escaped Bashit. Championship? Goodlie? His
large, purple nose crumpled up in disgust while contemplating
on the ridiculousness. ‘Bloody nerve they have, calling themselves
a golf club at all! I heard they greased the palm of some local
politician and got their hands on a couple of acres of farmland.
Chased a bulldozer over it, stuck 18 flags in the ground and now
announce themselves the region’s best golf experience!’
The President rolled his eyes thinking of the drawings one of
his Rotary friends managed to show him of that monstrosity of
a club house they were planning to build. Modern architecture
they called it. Absolutely abysmal. They must have bribed the
whole council to get planning permission. He threw the letter
on his desk in an annoyed flick of his wrist.
‘Really? What a naughty thing to do,’ Roughie said carefully,
while he pulled a dog biscuit out of his trouser pocket and slowly
coached Percy towards him, trying for some postponement so
he could compose himself. He glanced back at the printed
e-mail, carefully drew it towards him and read on carefully. ‘It
says here they will have 18 holes championship, 9 holes par 3, a
driving range, pitch & putt course, a special section for lessons,
tennis court, a swimming pool and a wellness area.’ He put the
letter in his lap and stared at Bashit. ‘Quite impressive, if I may
say so, President.’ His last words came out in an embarrassed
whisper.
Ben nodded, his dark face looking glum as he addressed the
group of men. ‘I think we need to take this seriously. What if
more members decide Goodlie is the better option?’ He turned
towards Bushrod, who suddenly resembled a dying fish, his
mouth opening and closing again, the colour of his face slowly
changing from dark pink to a steely grey.
‘I beg your pardon, Chipperfield,’ the Treasurer hissed.
‘What on earth makes you say that? How could anything be a
better option to Peckers Wood?’ Bushrod sat up straight, unfolded
his knees and pulled his shoulders backwards. ‘Complete and
utter nonsense, President. There is nothing better than our fine
institution. And I say that as a proud board member. We have
nothing to worry about. So the Thorneybush woman is leaving?
Well, good riddance I say.’
Roughie picked the letter up and squinted. ‘Another thing
worth mentioning, perhaps. Lav, Miss Thorneybush, will be
Goodlie’s Lady Captain. It says here she has quite a section
already. And that it is a wonderful opportunity for her, one she
would never have gotten here.’
‘Quite right,’ Bushrod exclaimed, his voice more
authoritarian than ever. ‘Over my dead body. Someone like her?
Here? Lady Captain? Not a chance.’ He stared at the President.
‘Frankly, I’m having second thoughts about that whole, to be
quite honest, rather silly Lady Captain initiative. Being a Peckers
Wood representative is a humongous task that comes with huge
responsibility. Saying I’m not quite certain ladies are up to that
is an understatement, if I’m rather frank.’
Bushrod was about to set off in a torrent, but was cut off by a
thundering ‘Silence!’ from Bashit who was now standing behind
his desk, his hands firmly planted on the leather upholstery. ‘We
are running out of time, and I have had enough of this women
subject. We will end this meeting now, and we are not reconsidering
the position of Lady Captain.’ He paused for a second before
speaking again in a whisper. ‘Females are moody creatures, and
I do not wish to light a spark under them, thank you very much.’
Another pause followed. ‘Especially in this current brave new
world we find ourselves in.’ Bashit resumed in a grave voice. He
sat down again, slowly, and inhaled deeply before eyeing the other
two men. ‘And I gave my word to Anthony Hackkett that I would
initiate this and so we will. It’s a minor thing, we won’t be paying
too much attention to this whole sheep headed initiative anyway.
It will probably have solved itself before the year is over.’
‘Alright, Bashit,’ Bushrod grumbled. ‘But remember…
we’ve been perfectly fine for more than two centuries. Our
good members won’t be amused if this lady nonsense turns
into, heaven forbid, us being forced into…changes.’ His voice
quivered, whispering the last word.
The President stared at his Treasurer, sighed inwardly
and waved towards the door. ‘Let me handle this. Roughie,
Chipperfield, the two ladies should be here in 10 minutes. Go
and arrange some more refreshments, will you?’
The two older men waited for the heavy panelled door
to close behind the two younger ones sent off to sort out the
housekeeper Miss Snuggs for some more tea. The President
limped to the far back end of the study, followed by the Treasurer
and Percy, the lurcher still munching on the treat his master had
tossed towards him.
Bushrod picked up a pair of binoculars from the President’s
desk. ‘Your dog might think he has something tough to chew
on,’ Bushrod said slowly, while pushing away Percy’s head with
an irritated shove, pulling the heavy curtain aside and resting
the President’s antique binoculars on his nose. ‘But what about
us? I mean, look at them.’
The Treasurer squinted through the old glass and
concentrated on the scene in the car park left of the first fairway.
Two identical looking, slightly plump dark haired young women
in matching navy trousers and pink pullovers, took brown leather
golf bags out of the boot of a battered Jaguar and threw them
on two tired looking trolleys. A small, tan and black scrawny
terrier with one lopsided ear pulled towards two other women,
walking in front of them. Both were thin, one with her black
hair pulled backwards in a severe bun, wearing black slacks
and a bright red top with matching shoes, their shine showing
they were carefully polished; the other one, now bending down,
kissing the dog while her bright orange curls cascaded over her
face. Starting to stand up straight again, she tossed her pony tail
back, facing him, revealing her body. His heart skipped a beat.
Her eyes seemed to look right through him as the others also
turned in his direction.
‘Good Lord. Look.’ President Bashit’s face crumpled up
in disgust. ‘Now Wonder Woman shows up.’ He snatched the
binoculars from Bushrod who grabbed the heavy curtain for
support and fell towards his old friend, only just regaining his
posture.
Bashit sighed dramatically and aimed towards the car park.
What in earth were they up to? Chatter boxing. Trust women to
dillydally and waste precious playing time. He put the binoculars
down and shook his head. At least young Miss Hackkett and her
friends seemed to like dogs. He looked down at the large loving
droopy eyes that were staring at him.
‘No good will come of this, Bashit. They will want things.
Have opinions. Things we do not want. Opinions we do not
share. Believe me.’ Bushrod released the curtain and staggered
back to his chair, the defeated look on his face matching the
slump of his usually straight back.
The President joined him, trying to ignore the ominous
dread he felt rising in his gut while he thought of Anthony
Hackkett’s letter in his left top drawer.
