Loopy (22 page)

Loopy was surprised but tried gamely to hide it. “That all? Not much, was it?”

“No, that's all, I'm afraid. No mention of anyone else, not even of the brilliant young golfer from Trabane with the peculiar loop at the top of his swing. That's the press for you. Wait till you knock out the Yank in the first round, though. Then the shaggers will be beating a path to your door, looking for interviews and the divil only knows what.”

“I know you're joking, but now that my driving seems to be okay again, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“Can I really beat Neumann? Honestly, now, answer me
honestly.
”

O'Hara emptied what was left in his glass before replying. “As true as God I have this feeling in my old bones that you
are
going to beat him tomorrow. Not because you're playing particularly well. The truth is I've often seen you play better. It's more”—he paused, trying to put his thoughts into words as Loopy waited, too experienced to risk O'Hara's wrath by interrupting—“more of a
feel
thing. I
sense
that there are things happening to you just now, a coming together of important strands in your life all at the same time.”

“Like what, f'r instance?”

“Oh, I don't know, really. I suppose the first thing was when you stopped by the fort. I always thought all that kind of stuff was pure nonsense. Your father used to tell me he went there to cheer himself up and make him feel better, but this time I thought I felt something
off
you when you got back into the car. A kind of aura, I suppose. Then there was the business of the driver. I still haven't seen it, by the way, because Weeshy kept it inside that dirty old sack of his, but I feel that it is, in some weird and wonderful way, connected up with everything else.”

O'Hara raised his hand as if to stifle any objections before pressing on, “Don't ask me
how
because I couldn't tell even if I wanted to. It's just a gut feeling. I think your session on the practice ground where Weeshy got you hitting the ball low and straight could be the thing that swings it all in your favor. All you need now is for that wind to blow like bloody hell for the next few days and you might surprise even yourself. So, after all that, to try to answer your original question, not only do I honestly, yes,
honestly,
believe that you will beat that Yank tomorrow, but I wouldn't be one bit surprised if you made it all the way. Just imagine playing thirty-six holes match play against someone with a name like”—he paused again while rummaging through the paper to find the name of the second seed—“like Andrew Villiers-Stewart. There's a mouthful of a name for you, and he's old enough to be your father.”

Any further discussion was interrupted by the arrival of the headwaiter. “Gentlemen—your table is ready when you are.”

They followed the portly figure, impeccable in full evening dress, as he glided past tables in the thronged dining room and waved them to their seats. Their table was next to a large group. Loopy noticed that among them was Al Neumann. The table for two behind them was the only empty one in the room.

The headwaiter plucked two leather-bound menus from under his arm and flicked them open with a deft movement of the wrist. “There you are, gentlemen. This is the table Mr. Linhurst specifically requested for you. As you may be aware, he has taken care of everything, and we are also expecting you for the next three nights, is that correct?”

They both nodded.

“Please take your time perusing the menu, gentlemen. If I may be of any assistance, please do not hesitate to ask. A drink perhaps, while you are making up your minds?”

Before Loopy could refuse, having decided that his dinner companion had already had more than enough, at least until he had got some solid food inside him, he found himself upstaged.

“A mineral water for the young man and a Black Bush for me. Might as well make it a large one while you're at it.” O'Hara smiled winningly at the headwaiter and was rewarded with a beaming grin.

“Actually, sir, if I may recommend the hotel special. It is a sixteen-year-old Bushmills, single malt. I can personally recommend it.”

“Sixteen years old…” O'Hara whistled appreciatively. “Now that's something you don't see every day. Yes, I would like to try it very much indeed.”

The menu appeared to be unchanged from Loopy's last visit in that it was largely in French. The only part of it readily decipherable was the price of each individual dish, and that was impressive. They read through it in silence, O'Hara audibly clicking his teeth every now and again in evident disapproval.

“I thought I had a good smattering of French, but I can't make head nor tail of this. We'll get your man to translate when he comes back with the drink.”

Which is what they did. Loopy opted for soup and a fillet steak, while O'Hara proved more adventurous. He settled on pâté followed by lobster thermidor. The wine waiter was consulted and O'Hara settled on a midrange Semillon, which Loopy was determined to sample, if only to leave that much less for O'Hara to drink—or get drunk on.

As the wine waiter was waiting for O'Hara to sample the wine, the headwaiter glided past their table murmuring, “This way, Sir Andrew, if you please. Will her ladyship be joining you?”

“Not tonight, Dominick. She's still in London. Arrives tomorrow, actually.”

“In good time for the final, no doubt, your lordship.”

“Hopefully, Dominick, hopefully. I see young Neumann over there. Who are those people with him?”

“His parents, your lordship, and the rest are friends.”

“Staying here, are they?”

“Only the boy and his parents, your lordship.”

“Some boy, Dominick. You'll remember how he beat me on the last hole.”

“Indeed I do. A sad day for Irish golf, if I may say so, your lordship.”

“Oh, I'm not so sure about that. The lad played well. However, I
am
rather looking forward to meeting him again, if fate decrees. Show him that there's life in us old dogs yet, eh, Dominick? Been getting in a spot of practice for a change. With any luck I should give a better account of myself this year.”

“That's good to hear, your lordship. Now what can I get you?”

“Oh, the same as usual. Never changes. Unlike the bloody weather. It was blowing a gale just now as I was coming in.”

Both Loopy and O'Hara shamelessly eavesdropped on this, and apart from a shared conspiratorial wink and a knowing grimace or two, neither of them gave any indication that they, too, were involved in The Atlantic. It was good to have Weeshy's weather forecast confirmed. Nor was it any harm to be reminded that Villiers-Stewart was a peer of the realm.

As if by an unspoken agreement, they discussed everything under the sun except golf but were well aware that the siting of their table might yield further insights into the number one and two seeds in The Atlantic. As O'Hara remarked, somewhat uncharitably, between forkfuls of lobster, this beat the bejaysus out of boiled mutton and spuds with the full rosary plus trimmings to follow.

Sir Andrew ate frugally—and swiftly. Standing up from the table, he was dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin when a loud greeting assailed him from the crowded table nearby.

“Hi there, Andy, good to see ya!”

His lordship brushed past Loopy and O'Hara as he went over to pay his respects to the Americans. “Are we to meet again this year?”

Al Neumann's relaxed greeting contrasted sharply with Dominick's bowing and scraping. “All depends, I suppose.”

His lordship replied in a noncommittal tone, “Who are you up against tomorrow?”

Neumann called across to a heavyset man who might have been an older brother, “Some wild card or other. Can't remember his name. No one's ever heard of him anyhow.”

His father shrugged but made no answer. Nor did he make any effort to address his lordship, who was now edging his way toward the door.

“Well, good night, gentlemen. We older folk must get a good night's sleep. Thirty-six holes takes it out of one, y'know.” With that his lordship slipped off into the night.

When he was out of earshot, the younger Neumann observed, “Decent old fart, I reckon. Wonder how he got the handle.”

Another voice from farther down the table offered, “Didn't he buy it? Seem to recall his family owns a brewery or something like that.”

The elder Neumann set him right on that one. “A distillery, I think. Somewhere up in the highlands of Scotland. He told me after last year's final.”

“Didn't offer us a case or anything though, did he?”

“Sure as hell he didn't. Those English lords are close guys with a buck.”

A new voice chimed in from the far end of the table, “Was that why he fired his caddy halfway through the final?”

Al set him right on this. “Don't think it was about money at all. Someone told me it was the caddy walked out on him—not the other way 'round. Who knows? Who cares?”

When the merriment that greeted this subsided, Al struck a more serious note. “D'you
really
reckon his legs are giving out? I mean, it would be useful to know for the last round on Sunday. He damn near had me last year, to be honest. Until that business of his caddy, I guess. After that he kinda went to pieces.”

Neumann senior advised caution. “Son, forget about that guy's legs—and his caddy. I don't blame Andy for firing the old guy, he smelt like one of his distilleries. You'd better take each round as it comes and get it into your head that you've got five guys to beat before you even reach Andy. Apart from the wild card that no one seems to have heard of, the rest of the guys you're up against will probably have played for their country—if not Walker Cup.”

“Doesn't worry me. Not one little bit. I thought we agreed before we came over that this is just a warm-up for the British Amateur. Not”—Al hastily corrected himself lest he give the wrong impression—“that I won't be trying my damndest on every shot. Still, I reckon this is the last night we can party before getting down to serious business. Anybody ever retained the trophy? I wonder. I mean, has anyone won it two years in a row?”

Under the table, Loopy stamped hard on O'Hara's foot to prevent him from answering the question. Which was just as well because O'Hara had indeed been about to rise to his feet and inform the young American that the late James Bruen had done just that—twice. Nor would it have cost him a thought to add that Bruen habitually ate Americans for breakfast and would have beaten the likes of Albert Neumann with one arm tied behind his back.

Having forestalled one incident, Loopy did not intend to push his luck any further. O'Hara was showing all the signs of his customary truculence when drunk, and it was a cast-iron certainty that one of the Americans, intent on partying the night away, would provoke him into some kind of ill-mannered outburst. On leaving the table, Loopy allowed Al Neumann and his father to get a good close-up view of him. Good enough, he hoped, for them to recognize him on the first tee tomorrow.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The house was in total darkness, which made inserting the key in the front door a difficult exercise even for a sober Loopy. For O'Hara it would have been an impossibility. By now it was blowing a gale, so severe that the car had swayed from side to side alarmingly on the way back from The Royal Hotel.

O'Hara observed to no one in particular, “She must be in one of her moods again. That's why the oul' bitch didn't leave a light on for us.”

This was followed by an attack of giggles so infectious that Loopy could not help but join in. One would put his finger to his lips and say,
“Sh-h-h-h-h-h-h!”
The other would shake with suppressed laughter, trying desperately to ensure that the sounds of their merriment did not awaken the sleeping harridan. Somehow Loopy located the light switch in the narrow hall as O'Hara propped himself up against the banister, still giggling uncontrollably between bouts of hiccups. A note was on the hall stand:
Gone to bed. Phone messages on kitchen table.

The first message read,
Best of luck. I love you, Amy. P.S. I got the job!

Loopy smiled to himself and looked at the other one. From Joe Delany and his wife, Linda, it wished Loopy
all the luck in the world.

“You'll probably need it” was O'Hara's parting shot as they climbed the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible. From overhead came a menacing rumble that might have been rolling thunder. It was strong enough to be heard above the gale that howled around the house, making the windows rattle like staccato bursts of machine-gun fire. On their reaching the landing, the thunder proved to be Margaret snoring.

The job Amy referred to was an important viability study for a big British distillery. By a strange coincidence it was the parent company of the Maltings, though the Trabane operation was but the tiniest cog in what was a large machine. Amy had asked him about the Makings, and he had told her its history and how important it was to the town that it remain open. He hoped that she might put in a good word for the Makings when she came to write the viability report but would not have asked her do so in a million years. Yet that phone message from Amy gave him the boost to his confidence he would need so much in the coming days.

*   *   *

As they drove to the golf course in the early-morning light, the seagulls were no longer riding the thermals with a lazy flick of a wing. The few gulls brave enough to take wing were being tossed about like scraps of paper in the upper air. Their less daring colleagues contented themselves with squabbling noisily for morsels in the rubbish bins of Ballykissane.

After breakfast in the clubhouse, O'Hara and Loopy made for the practice ground, ten minutes before the time agreed with Weeshy. If what they'd overheard in the dining room last night was true, Weeshy had walked out on better golfers in midround for a lesser offense than showing up late.