Loopy (15 page)

“Welcome to you both!” Grasping Loopy by the shoulder, Mr. Porter addressed him first. “You must be Larry Lynch. Tim speaks most highly of you, especially your golf. Tells me you beat him recently. And you”—turning to O'Hara—“must be Pat O'Hara. Can you really be retired and you looking so young?”

O'Hara, who had been roundly cursing the landed gentry all the way up the long, rhododendron-lined avenue, seemed mollified by such outrageous flattery and conceded that it was indeed he.

“Good, then come inside. The patient is in an upstairs room and likely to be there for some time if old Doc Hegarty has his way. Follow me.”

With that Mr. Porter bounded up the wide stairs at the end of the hall, taking the steps two at a time. At a landing at the top, more dead animal heads lined the walls, interspersed by the occasional African spear. They were ushered into a large bedroom, brightly lit by enormous windows looking out over the rolling pastures of the Castle Porter estate.

Tim's bulky frame was almost lost in an enormous four-poster bed. Propped up on pillows, he was looking sorry for himself as his father announced the two visitors before slipping silently out of the room. Loopy and O'Hara drew up chairs to the bedside.

“Bloody ridiculous to catch this stupid infection. Probably from drinking too much of my own wine, eh, Loopy?”

After some small talk, all of a sudden Tim became more businesslike. Turning to O'Hara, he declared without preamble, “It looks like I won't be fit for the Atlantic Trophy next month, so I just wanted to tell you in person, Pat, that I believe young Loopy here is the right man for the job.”

O'Hara stared at Tim in disbelief as if he could not believe his ears. He had never heard anything so ridiculous inside or outside the classroom. How could anyone, even someone as dim-witted as Tim Porter, even consider the possibility? A lad with such humble origins had about as much chance of being asked to play in the Atlantic Trophy as being elected pope. He did not try to hide his feelings as he growled, “Is that why you dragged us all this way down here? Just so that you could let us in on the news that you wanted our friend here to take your place in the Atlantic Trophy? Jaysus, you've got some neck, Tim Porter, so you have!”

Exasperated, Tim struggled with the pillows to prop himself up higher before replying with more spirit than might have been good for him, considering his condition, “Listen to me for once, will you.” Turning to Loopy, Tim explained as if O'Hara were not there, “Y'know, that's the trouble with all these bloody schoolteachers—they never bloody
listen.
I suppose they get into the habit of yakkety-yakking on and on in the classroom, and God help anyone who dares to butt in.”

Tim continued in a calmer voice, “Now, if Pat will shut up for a second, the reason I asked you
both
here at such short notice is that I knew I couldn't convince either of you over the phone. And as I'm not much good with the pen, writing it all down would have been no good either. I had to see you both and convince you—”

O'Hara cut in impatiently, “Oh, have a bit of sense, Tim. Supposing, just supposing, that you could convince me
and
Larry here. What about the bloody committee, especially Mr. Leo bloody Martin? You know as well as I do that it's
his
bank is sponsoring The Atlantic, and that Leo has always had a big say in who represents Trabane. Up to now, there's been no problem because
you've
always been the obvious choice. Not just because of your golf either, but also because of all this…” O'Hara flapped a hand around at the luxurious surroundings in which Tim was convalescing.

As Tim tried to interrupt, he was waved into silence as O'Hara stubbornly held the floor. “Now
hold
on a minute, Tim, let me finish. You know as well as I do that anyone playing in The Atlantic has to be”—O'Hara paused, seeking a way to phrase what he wanted to say without causing offense—“shall we say,
well-off.
And it's no harm to be a client in good standing with Allied bloody Banks of Ireland. An expensive education is no harm either. Surely it must have occurred to you, lying there in your bed with all the time in the world to think about it, that Loopy has none of these attributes. So how do you propose getting round that obstacle, for starters? Then there's the question as to whether the lad is actually good enough to play in a big tournament so soon.”

Having said his piece, O'Hara sank back in his chair, feigning exhaustion at his efforts to talk sense.

Tim, however, was not to be put off. “I daresay much of what you say is true, old cock. The Atlantic
is
full of snobbish nonsense, more so than anything else I've ever played in. Not just our own lot but lots of Brits and Americans, all top golfers mind you, but with big jobs in banking, insurance, and God alone knows what else. But so what? Loopy's manners are as good as theirs, and he's the obvious choice to replace me. Even if I were in the whole of my health, he would still be the best pick. As you know, he beat me easily over the Ballykissane course.”

O'Hara looked startled. “That's news to me. I never heard a word about it. Nor did anyone else at the club, as far as I know.”

They both eyed Loopy, who remained silent as Tim explained, “Oh, yes, indeed he did. We played the Ballykissane course not so long ago, off the back markers just as they do for The Atlantic. He beat me four and three and won the bye as well. I wouldn't mind, but it was his first time ever setting foot on the course. He played so well even the caddies were clapping him at the finish.”

O'Hara looked accusingly at Loopy. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Loopy blushed, then tried to shrug it off with a diffident “You never asked, that's why.”

O'Hara was spluttering in disgust at anyone being so stupid as to behave like that. “Jaysus but you're the odd fish, and no mistake! Sure, this changes
everything.
Now I can face up to Mr. Leo bloody Martin and tell him that our friend here not only knows the course, but he has beaten you. By how much did you say?”

“Four and three
and
he played some bloody marvelous golf into the bargain. Best I ever witnessed, in fact.”

The schoolmaster was practically beside himself with excitement. “That's
it
then! All we need now is a letter from you to the committee, saying that you won't be available for this year's Atlantic Trophy and that you strongly recommend that Larry be your replacement in view of the fact that he has already beaten you over the Ballykissane course.”

“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.