Loopy (16 page)

Rising to his feet on the stroke of eight o'clock, the captain prefaced his remarks by advising his audience to stock up on their refreshments before the hatch was shut. Twenty minutes later he was still stressing the extreme gravity of what they were about to discuss without actually spelling out exactly what it was.

O'Hara, who had already left the room once for a refill, was about to repeat the exercise. By now the only one paying the slightest attention to the proceedings was Leo Martin. In his capacity as honorary treasurer and vice president elect he was not going to give anyone cause to think he might not be the automatic choice for the presidency at the next Annual General Meeting. This had occurred just once in the history of the club, when the vice president had run off with someone's wife to make a fresh start in Western Australia. Leo had no intention of joining him on the roll of infamy. He was only too well aware that the directors of Allied Banks of Ireland approved of their staff playing an active role in their local community.

In the coming year it would be vital that Leo be in a position to influence local opinion when the bank announced the closure of its Trabane branch. This had been confirmed that very morning. A registered letter, the contents being far too explosive to entrust to any other form of communication, had landed on Leo's desk. His bank was indeed short-listed for closure. The letter stressed that the information was strictly confidential and for Leo's eyes only. When the news of the closure had been released and the initial outcry had died down, it would be Leo who would make soothing noises to the objectors, and where better to do so than from the presidency of Trabane Golf Club? A quiet word here, a veiled threat there, and the closure of the bank branch would prove nothing more than a nine-days wonder. A few important clients, such as Edward Linhurst and Seamus Norbert, would be “looked after” in the nearest branch eleven miles away. Then, and only then, could Leo pack his bags and move to Dublin, where, he was sure, a broader stage awaited his undoubted talents. It would also, he hoped, cheer up Rosa, who had been moaning about what a dump Trabane was ever since she had set foot in the place. Though, he now reminded himself, she had not been banging on quite so much about it since taking up golf.

Such were the thoughts going through Leo's mind as he watched the captain droning on and on, pausing just long enough to take a sip from a pint of Guinness. Wiping the creamy froth from his wispy mustache, the captain cleared his throat more noisily than usual, a hopeful sign that he might at long last be coming to the point.

“So it now behooves me to address the vexed question of who we are to select to represent us in next month's Atlantic Trophy.”

The captain stopped to further refresh himself from the pint as O'Hara's stage whisper of “And about shagging time, too” echoed off the walls of the small committee room. The captain chose to treat this insult from an already half-drunk schoolmaster with the disdain it deserved.

“It is my duty first of all to read you a letter I have received from Tim Porter, who—as you will no doubt be well aware—has so ably represented us for the past several years—”

“Never got past the second round, if that's what you mean by
ably represented!
”

This time there was no ignoring O'Hara, halfway down on his third large whiskey and showing all the signs of it. “Mr. O'Hara, you will have ample time to give us the benefit of your thoughts on the matter later. In the meantime I would be more than grateful if you allowed me to get on with it.”

This occasioned a deep sigh that seemed to come from near the soles of O'Hara's shoes, and a fainter, though still audible, encouragement to “Get on with it so, for Jaysus' sake!”

If O'Hara were not supposed to be taking the minutes of the meeting—no one else being prepared to do so—the captain might have taken him up on that last comment. Instead he again ignored it.

“Now where was I?… Oh, yes, Tim Porter's letter.”

With one hand he rummaged among the papers at his elbow, using the other to raise what remained of the pint to his lips. He drained it, leaving a succession of creamy rings inside the empty glass.

“Here we are. I'd better read it out to you:

Dear Captain,

Sorry to have to tell you that I'm laid low with a kidney infection and my doctor assures me that I will be confined to bed for at least a month. That being so, I have no chance whatsoever of playing in the Atlantic Trophy—in the event of the committee being kind enough to select me yet again.

However, I would very much like to recommend someone who is well qualified to take my place and who, I have every confidence, will properly represent our club in such a prestigious event. He is Larry Lynch and you all know him well. A while back I played him in a level match over the Ballykissane course and he beat me easily—four and three. He showed a great liking for the golf course and I confidently expect him to do well there again. I can further assure you that he will represent our club most ably as his behavior both on and off the course is beyond reproach.

I leave the matter in your able hands, secure in the knowledge that you will act—as always—in the best interests of the club.

Yours sincerely,

Tim Porter

The captain waited for a moment for the import of Tim's letter to sink in, then looked straight at Leo Martin as he spoke.

“Well, gentlemen, there's no doubt who young Porter thinks should represent us. Even though, as Pat O'Hara reminded us, Tim never advanced further than the second round, there can be no doubt that he represented Trabane in a proper fashion. He dresses well, speaks well, and enhances the image of Trabane Golf Club wherever he goes—”

“Mr. Captain!” The interruption came, as might have been anticipated, from O'Hara. “Mr. Captain, I trust that you are not in any way implying that young Lynch might not, as you so elegantly put it, enhance our image by representing us at Ballykissane! You and the rest of the committee must surely know that he is the best golfer in this club, even though he has only been playing a relatively short time. I myself—”

It was the schoolmaster's turn to be interrupted as Leo cut in, “Mr. Captain, if I may interject—”

O'Hara was not to be put off so easily and countered, “Mr. Captain, I believe
I
have the floor. May I suggest friend Leo wait his turn!”

The captain remained calm. “Gentlemen, please!… As a matter of fact I still have the floor. I had not finished when first Mr. O'Hara and then Mr. Martin wished to speak. I assure them both that they will have ample time to express their views—but only
after
I have said what I want to say.”

O'Hara's apology was not as contrite as the captain might have wished when he confessed, “I beg your pardon, Captain. After half an hour or so, I mistakenly believed that you had concluded your remarks. I can only crave your forgiveness.” With that he went to the serving hatch and returned shortly thereafter with a full glass.

Leo, ever mindful of his position as president-in-waiting, muttered a more intimate. “Sorry, skipper.”

“That's all right, gentlemen. I'll throw the discussion open to everyone in a moment, but I just want to emphasize, and I can't emphasize it too much, that whoever we choose, his behavior off the course is just as important as his accomplishments on the course. What we don't want is someone who might let the side down. Other than that, and all things being equal, I suppose we have to pick the best player, and, let's face it, we will not find a stronger player than Tim's candidate, young Lynch. Now, Leo, you have something to say.”

O'Hara again interjected, this time more heatedly, “Mr. Captain,
I
had the floor long before Leo.”

“All in good time, Pat. Let Leo have his say first, then you can come in immediately after him, and then, of course, anyone else who feels they might have something to contribute to the discussion.”

Leo rose to his feet, delighted to have jumped the gun on O'Hara, whom he heartily detested.

“I will be as brief as possible. As you know, my bank has the honor of sponsoring the Atlantic Trophy. I'm sure you will agree that it is a special event in certain respects. As you well know, the other major amateur tournaments are by qualification. Those wishing to play in them must either have a sufficiently low handicap or else have qualified to play in them through a series of eliminating rounds. Either way, the organizers have no say in who plays in their tournaments just so long as the entrant has qualified in the specified manner. I would remind you, however, that entry into The Atlantic is by invitation only. You can have the best amateur in the world in your club, but if he doesn't measure up to the required standards, then he will not be invited.”

With that, Leo sat down, and the captain indicated to Pat O'Hara that he might now have his say.

“Captain, we should all be grateful to friend Leo for reminding us of the rather unusual entry requirements for The Atlantic. No doubt he has a special insight into the minds of the sponsors, being one of their valued employees. That said, there can be no argument as to whether young Lynch is the
best
golfer in our club. Tim Porter's letter leaves no doubt on that score. Anyone who doubts his word can check with Joe Delany, who says quite simply that Larry Lynch is the best amateur he has ever seen, full stop. So, gentlemen”—he paused for a moment to look around the table at the other members of the committee in an effort to gauge their mood before he came to the nub of his argument—“what we are really talking about here, even though no one so far has dared to admit it, is whether young Lynch's manners and background are up to scratch. I see my friend Leo shaking his head at this, but nevertheless I am sure that most of you will agree with me on this. Now I'll grant you that there never was any problem in that regard with Tim Porter. He has a boarding school education, knows what knife or fork to use and holds them in the approved manner. He knows a good wine from a bad one and, even more important, can pronounce their names properly. That's all well and good and no doubt pleases the sponsors of The Atlantic no end. He is also, more than likely, a client in good standing of the bank, though we can hardly expect friend Leo to take us into his confidence in that regard. As far as young Lynch is concerned, I am led to believe that he, too, has an account with Allied Banks of Ireland, so that should not be a problem.”

O'Hara shot a smug glance at Leo, who was staring fixedly at the ceiling with an expression on his face that said louder than words,
When is this buffoon going to sit down and shut up?

“As for his table manners, well, we can always give them a quick brushing up, should that prove necessary. Personally I have always thought it more important how he handled a golf club rather than a knife or fork, but there you are—doctors differ and patients die. Now I can see that our captain—and others—are becoming restive, so I'll just make one last point before I finish. Times are bad enough 'round here already—talk of businesses losing jobs, if not closing down altogether, and when was the last time anyone saw a tourist in Trabane. Well, we don't want to go and make things even worse by telling the world and his wife that this place is so full of bloody snobs that the ordinary person can't even get a look-in. Now we all know that, for the most part, this is pure balderdash. However, if it should go out from this meeting that young Lynch wasn't picked to represent us at The Atlantic because we weren't sure if he could hold his fork properly or knew how to pronounce
Beaujolais Villages,
then our critics would have a field day at our expense. As you know, young Lynch was a talented hurler before taking up golf, and Seamus Norbert is trying to get him back playing again for the Trabane Gaels. He has a path worn out to Lynch's farm trying to persuade the lad's mother to get him back hurling again. He might offer him a job at more money than he gets here. That's not to be sneezed at the way jobs are disappearing at the moment. Yet I know for a fact that young Lynch wants to stay on here. He likes the club and is dead keen to improve his game. Now you tell me, what sort of a message will we be sending to him, not to mind every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a grievance—real or imaginary—against our club if we select anyone else? That's all I have to say to you for now.”

His speech was received in silence. The captain sounded solemn as he summed up, “I'm sure we are all immensely grateful to both speakers for their contributions to the discussion. Now, is there anyone else who wants to say something?”

He waited for a while, one eyebrow cocked expectantly, then when it was obvious that no one else wished to add anything, he tapped a pencil on the table and said, “Right, gentlemen, we must vote on it then. Would someone please propose a motion that we can vote on.”

O'Hara struggled to his feet and said, not as distinctly as he might have wished, but nevertheless clearly enough for all to understand, “I propose that young Loop—I mean Larry Lynch represent Trabane Golf Club at the forthcoming Atlantic Trophy.”

When the hands were counted, Leo's was the last to be raised, making the decision unanimous.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The days between his selection for The Atlantic and the start of the competition flew quicker than Loopy could have thought possible. O'Hara promised to drive him to Ballykissane, where a widowed sister-in-law had a house outside the seaside resort and about five miles from the golf course. There they would stay for as long as necessary. O'Hara explained that the invitation had been longstanding, but that he had been reluctant to take it up since his brother had died some years back. The Atlantic Trophy presented an opportunity to fulfill his obligations in that regard and to avail themselves of free accommodation in an area that had been booked out months in advance of the golf tournament.