Loopy (14 page)

Weeshy had called the putt from the tee, a good two hundred yards distant, as being a ball to the left. He had confirmed this as he'd handed Loopy the putter. Tim's caddy had told Loopy that Weeshy had been caddying here since Adam was a boy. Despite his missed putt on the first green, every fiber in Loopy's body told him that this putt was straight—and up to now he had always trusted his own judgment. He lined up the putt for the back of the hole and struck it straight and true. At the last moment it veered sharply to the right, missing the hole by two inches, the width of a golf ball.

No one said anything. His caddie slammed the putter back in the bag. From there on, Loopy got the message and followed Weeshy's advice to the letter, not just on the green but also on the blind shots where white stones set high in the dunes were the only indication of where a green might be. In so doing he had beaten Tim by the comfortable margin of four up with three holes to go. He had also won the “bye” over the last three holes despite giving Tim generous odds to save his money.

The last hole was long and narrow with bunkers deep enough to hide a grown man. Their sheer sides made it difficult to get the ball out, much less advance it in any meaningful way. Tim had played the last hole perfectly, leaving his ball some eighty yards from the green in two solid shots, one with the driver and the other a well-struck three wood. Loopy had hit an enormous drive that had caught the edge of the rough but found a tight lie that would prevent him from hitting a fairway wood. Obediently, he waited for Weeshy to hand him a club. It was the three wood.

“Give it a good cut with that!”

Loopy looked at the caddy and then at the three wood. Tim had shown him months back how to cut a six iron out of the rough, but the fairway wood was a different proposition altogether. Seeing the look of doubt, Weeshy snarled, “Cut it up, man, like I'm telling you, for Jaysus' sake! Aim well to the left of the green and
cut
it in. Go on.” It was the first time Weeshy had appeared agitated all day. “I
knows
you can do it, anyways!”

Loopy placed the clubhead ever so deliberately behind the ball nestling deep in the wiry dune grass. Suddenly any doubts he might have had about pulling off the shot disappeared. They had been replaced by a familiar feeling, the tingling sensation in the hairs at the nape of his neck.

His mind emptied itself of everything. All he could focus on was that small white ball. He took the club back slowly. As he started the downswing, it was as if nature itself were holding its breath. The surf stopped pounding, the wind no longer whistled through the towering sand dunes, and even the seagulls stopped their squawking long enough for Loopy to execute the stroke.

He caught the ball square, despite its poor lie. It exploded skyward, hanging in the air for what seemed like an eternity before swooping down short of the green. Then, as if gaining energy from the tightly cut fairway, it bounded forward again. It scampered past an evil sand dune seeking to ensnare it in its grasp, then daintily sidestepped a deep bunker guarding the entrance to the green. Rapidly running out of steam, it came to rest on the front edge of the green, some 230 yards distant.

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.