Loopy (19 page)

She handed him the envelope. Loopy tore it open there and then. When he read its contents, he could barely suppress a whoop of delight. It was from the caddy master. It confirmed that Weeshy had been assigned to him for the Atlantic Trophy. It added that his caddy would be waiting for him outside the caddy master's hut the following morning at 9 a.m. Loopy thrust the envelope into his pocket and sprinted after O'Hara.

As he caught up with him, they went through the door and followed the arrows carved from mahogany with
LOCKER ROOMS
in brass letters screwed onto them down a long corridor. This was thickly carpeted and had other doors leading off it with even more brass plates to indicate what lay behind them. There were, it seemed, private rooms for everyone. The captain, president, secretary and catering manager. Outside the Members Bar a large notice reminded them that it was strictly reserved for
MEN ONLY
.

Every wall from hall door to the locker rooms was paneled with the same dark wood, giving it a somber air as if entering a courthouse or a place of worship. Above the shoulder-high paneling hung a series of framed photographs, many yellowed with age, of stern-looking men. The caption beneath each indicated that they were all in some way associated with the running of this bastion of privilege over the past 150 years or so. Many of the faces had long sideburns and the ruddy features of the well-off of another age. The one similarity they all shared was to stare sternly at some unseen object in the middle distance. There was not a woman among them.

“Bloody merchant princes to a man, that lot. It's a miracle they let us in through the bloody door! Reminds me of the local bank when I was a kid. My mother used to send me there for change for the sweet-shop she ran at the time. I nearly peed in my pants every time I went there, I was that nervous. It was all that shagging dark paneling and the portraits of elderly farts looking down on you from the walls. All designed of course to scare the bejaysus out of you. Gave me the creeps, I can tell you. Still does, actually.”

O'Hara was determined not to be overawed by any of it. The haughty stare of the long-dead worthies seemed to treat his comment with the contempt they would have thought it deserved. At the end of the corridor, two large swing doors faced them. One bore a brass plate with the faded inscription
LOCKER
. The other,
ROOMS
. These pair of signs had become faded, unlike the others, by countless members brushing against them as they pushed open the swing doors.

Back in Trabane the changing room had recently been enlarged and renovated and was the pride and joy of the club. The accumulation of odd shoes, abandoned socks, and old golf clubs had been thrown into a skip. In their place were installed shiny metal lockers with slits for ventilation, two modest showers, and a vanity unit where the golfers could smarten themselves up a bit before joining their colleagues in the bar. Until now, it had been the smartest changing room Loopy had ever seen. When he had turned out for the Trabane Gaels, the changing facilities were round the back of a shed that housed the groundsman's equipment. As for the after-match ablutions, these were conducted in a nearby water trough. On some of the grounds he had played on, this trough also served to water the sheep and cattle who kept the pitch grazed bare in the off-season.

Pushing the swing doors open, they were inside what looked like a small cathedral. Instead of pews, row upon row of lockers stretched for almost as far as the eye could see. Each locker had a small brass cardholder with the member's name on it.

O'Hara examined some of these with interest. “Presumably, if you don't have a business card of some sort, you don't get a locker. That would automatically eliminate most of our members back home,” he cackled gleefully before adding, “mightn't be such a bad thing at that.”

Loopy barely heard him. A large notice board close to the entrance was festooned with lists of members' handicap adjustments, forthcoming social events, and forthcoming members' competitions. The sole indication that Ballykissane Golf Club was about to host yet again one of the country's major amateur tournaments was a sheet of paper, relegated to an obscure corner, headed
ATLANTIC TROPHY COMPETITORS
. It informed its readers that the lockers assigned to those playing in the Atlantic Trophy were at the far end of the room and had their names attached thereto. In heavy Gothic script it again reminded competitors, lest they had failed to notice the large brass plate at the front door, that jacket, collar, and tie must, at all times, be worn within the clubhouse.

After some difficulty they located the locker assigned to
LAURENCE LYNCH, TRABANE GC
. They went out through a side door marked
CARPARK
and retrieved his golf clubs and sports bag from the car. Taking a careful look around to get his bearings in this vast cavern of lockers, Loopy noticed that directly over his locker hung a portrait in oils of Jimmy Bruen, one of the greatest amateur golfers that Ireland had ever produced.

O'Hara never tired of relating Bruen's exploits to anyone prepared to listen. Described at the time as the best golfer, amateur or professional, in the world, Bruen led the British and Irish Walker Cup team as a teenager before going on to win the British Amateur in 1946. Of late though, O'Hara tended to lay emphasis on an even more unique aspect of Bruen. This was his golf swing. It had an exaggerated loop at the top, as a result of playing the game of hurling as a boy. Bruen retained the loop until his untimely death, by which time he had lost interest in the game, emerging from the shadows—like the late Bobby Jones—only to feature in the occasional exhibition match.

When some of the club members in Trabane urged Loopy to change his grip on the golf club to a more orthodox method and thereby remove the loop that was part and parcel of his backswing, O'Hara would explode. Done with swearing, he would then glare at the individual bold enough to suggest the change to orthodoxy and remind him in no uncertain terms that Ireland's greatest golfer had precisely the same loop at the top of
his
backswing. O'Hara would end the discussion by snarling that what was good enough for Jimmy Bruen was good enough for him—and Larry Lynch.

It seemed, however, that O'Hara had not seen the portrait of his idol, for he was already on his way to the bar.

As Loopy elbowed his way through the swing doors, he caught a glimpse of O'Hara's back disappearing round the corner at the far end of the corridor. He hurried after him, but was momentarily distracted by a scorecard dated August 1947, which was in a small gilt frame and spotlit by a powerful lamp. It was the course record for Ballykissane before alterations to the layout had consigned it to history. The score was 65, and the player was none other than Jimmy Bruen. Another omen? Hardly, he decided. It was ridiculous to imagine that the ghost of a long-dead golfer could help him now—even if they shared a “loop” in their swings. Nonetheless he felt strangely elated as he strode confidently into the public bar.

Public,
of course, meant that it served those who were not members but had passed the scrutiny of the doorman. The bar was even more like a cathedral than the locker rooms. Again there were acres of wooden paneling on every wall, with enormous French windows looking out onto the putting green and, in the distance, the first tee. Some of the windows were open, allowing the ocean breeze to dissipate the pall of tobacco smoke coming from tall, winged armchairs of deep red leather dotted randomly over the huge polished floor of the bar. Most of the parties were hidden, sunk deep in the plush leather, behind newspapers, though others were grouped around low tables and talking animatedly among themselves. Loopy made his way to the bar, where he took a stool next to O'Hara, who was already halfway down a tumbler of whiskey.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Loopy confided. “It reminds me of the courthouse I had to go to the day my father…” His voice trailed off. The memory of that day of ignominy he preferred not to recall.

“The day they were suing him for the money, you mean?”

“Yeah.” The edge to Loopy's voice did not escape O'Hara.

“Don't know why that bothers you so much. Half of Trabane have been up in that court at one time or another. I was up myself—”

“I know. I know. For drunken driving or something. That's nowhere near as bad as not being able to pay your debts.”

O'Hara gave a hollow laugh that seemed to come all the way from the soles of his feet. “H-m-m-ph! Glad you think so. There are plenty who think different, my lad. Don't worry about it, for God's sake. He didn't go to jail or anything like that.”

“Only for my mother standing up in court and pleading with the judge to go easy on him, he would have done. Or so Mr. O'Sullivan, the solicitor, told us afterwards. Not that I gave a damn what sentence they gave him. They could have locked him up and thrown away the key as far as I'm concerned. I never want to see him again as long as I live. 'Twas my mother I was worried about.”

O'Hara waited for a moment or two before dropping the subject with a gentle “I know, lad, I know.”

In the silence that followed, both of them took stock of their surroundings.

The walls of the bar were easily twenty feet high. One was adorned with plaques listing the names in gold leaf of former captains and presidents and the years in which they had held office. Elsewhere there were framed photographs of previous winners of The Atlantic. Some of the earlier ones were sepia prints of knickerbockered worthies with long mustaches and even longer double-barreled names and a sprinkling of
Right Hons.
thrown in for good measure. Loopy found it almost a relief to see that last year's winner was a blond youth in his twenties with a severe crew cut and a Harvard sweater, whose name, according to the caption beneath the photograph, was Albert Neumann. A scorecard more modestly framed than Bruen's proclaimed that Neumann was the holder of the course record for the present layout.

Loopy went over to the scorecard to examine it more closely. This was a much more recent scorecard than Bruen's. A closer look revealed that it was, in fact, from The Plate of the previous year, the competition that he had been told no one took really seriously since it was merely a warm-up round for The Atlantic! Well, it seemed that the crew-cut Albert Neumann, had taken it seriously indeed because he had gone around Ballykissane in three under par. Impressed by this feat, Loopy rejoined O'Hara, who was already well down on his second whiskey. As they sipped in silence, out of curiosity Loopy picked up a typewritten sheet, one of several strewn around the bar counter, and glanced idly at it. It was the draw for the first round of The Atlantic. The peace and tranquillity of the bar were shattered by a startled yelp. Loopy had found his name right at the bottom of the draw.

“I'm up against last year's winner in the very first round. There's his picture over there on the wall. What's more, he holds the course record!”

If Loopy was expecting any consolation from O'Hara, he was to be disappointed. “Just as well you stopped off at that famous fort of yours then, isn't it? You'd better pray that its effects last for at least another forty-eight hours!”

With that, the schoolmaster put the glass to his lips and drained it in two quick gulps. Looking at Loopy's half-full glass of Coca-Cola, he added reproachfully, “Better finish that up quick. We don't want to be late for Maggie. My sister-in-law never tires of saying over and over again that punctuality is the courtesy of kings. How she came by that bit of misinformation is anybody's guess.”

CHAPTER TEN

The next day dawned bright but windy. The sun ducked in and out from behind clouds that looked like giant wads of cotton wool. Such hide-and-seek constantly changed the ocean from duck-egg blue to a menacing gray, speckled with white horses driven by offshore gusts—then back again. This volatile weather cocktail was clearly visible from the bathroom of Margaret's house, which overlooked the sea. Loopy was shaving with great care for he wanted to look his best when he strode to the first tee, wearing his new golfing outfit emblazoned with the crest of Trabane Golf Club. He could hear O'Hara shuffling around his room, preparing to confront another day. At least he wouldn't have a hangover, Loopy reflected. Margaret ran a dry ship and a religious one as well. The night before they had barely finished a meal of boiled mutton, cabbage, and potatoes when she'd announced that they would say the rosary.

Moving into the sitting room, they'd knelt on the carpet, facing the armchairs they had been sitting on earlier. Loopy lowered his head and droned the responses in a singsong voice he hadn't used since his earliest days at the National School. Margaret led the prayers, in a high-pitched, nasal voice that made Loopy want to giggle. His and O'Hara's role was a to chime in with the responses. As with the golf swing, in this, timing was everything. To begin the response before Margaret had finished would make her feel that she was being unduly hurried. To come in late was just as bad, implying that the attention of both men was wandering and not on what clearly was, for Margaret, the crowning moment of the day.

It came as something of surprise to discover that when the last Gloria of the fifth and final decade of the rosary was completed, the performance was, in fact, only getting into stride. Margaret went on to solicit numerous favors and blessings from a collection of saints, many of whom Loopy had never heard of before. Though her approach seemed scattershot at first, it soon became obvious that she believed there was safety in numbers when seeking saintly intercession on her behalf. Loopy noticed with regret that Andrew, the patron saint of golf, was not on Margaret's shopping list. As he waited for the rosary to end, Loopy wondered idly if he might yet have cause to invoke Andrew's saintly help before his stay in Ballykissane was over.