Loopy (28 page)

Sir Andrew seemed only to give his long putt a cursory glance before stroking it firmly toward the hole. It never occurred to Loopy that he might hole the putt. It was almost fifty feet long with a break to the right. Old Moll, the enormous sand dune, ensured that the green itself was an oasis of calm, sheltered from the wind by her enormous bulk. The ball seemed about to stop a foot short of the hole but found a downhill slope that dragged it the last twelve inches into the dark recesses of the cup. It was an enormous putt, the longest anyone had holed in the tournament thus far, and it drew applause from friend and foe alike. To Loopy it felt like a dagger thrust deep into his heart, but Weeshy appeared unmoved. Nor did he join in the applause. Loopy did, clapping with an enthusiasm he did not feel, yet appreciating the excellence of his opponent's play. They were now all flat, even and with everything to play for. Sixteen holes later they were still all flat as they went in to lunch.

By then the crowd had become restive. When it dawned on them that unlike at a hurling match, they were not going to have a result for many hours to come, they drifted off in search of sustenance. The clubhouse, with a dress code that insisted on jacket, collar, and tie, neither sought nor attracted their custom. Instead many walked the mile or so into the town where food and drink was available in more congenial surroundings than those prevailing at the golf club. Many of those who had made the long trip on the buses would find a seaside town like their own, albeit a far busier and prosperous one, more attractive than traipsing round a windblown golf links. They had paid their respects to Loopy, cheered him on for as long as they could manage, registered their protest with the powers that be in Allied Banks of Ireland, and by lunchtime felt it was high time for a drink.

Back at the golf club, lunch was a more formal affair. Sir Andrew, engulfed in a sea of blazers, was whisked off to a large table reserved for the sponsors in the main dining room. Loopy joined his friends and supporters in the bar. When a reporter asked Joe Delany if he had given any advice to his pupil as to how he might cope with the wily Sir Andrew, Joe explained that Loopy had long since learned everything he could teach him and had now graduated to a higher plane. His last word on the subject was “Anyway, he's in good hands right now. That caddy of his is some genius, I can tell you. Not only does he seem to know every blade of grass on the course, but he can club young Loopy to the very inch. Mind you, the other guy knows a thing or two also. Looks like we're in for a ding-dong battle this afternoon.”

The same reporter got a frostier reception in the dining room. A red-faced man in a blazer told him in no uncertain terms that Sir Andrew did not give interviews during lunch—or halfway through an important golf match for that matter. Just as he was leaving empty-handed, it struck the reporter that his tormentor's face was in some way familiar.

“Excuse me, but are you Mr. Martin by any chance?”

The blazer grumpily admitted as much, though secretly flattered by the recognition. The lad
was
a journalist, after all.

“Can you give me a statement about the closing of the Trabane branch then? There are people out there with banners and…”

Leo's brow darkened. His face reddened as he bundled the cub reporter out of the dining room so fast that his feet barely touched the carpet. When Leo returned to the table, the bank's public relations officer eyed him quizzically and asked what was the matter. When Leo explained as best he could, the PRO exploded.

“Jaysus, Leo, you should have called me over. That's no way to handle those bastards, chucking them out on their ear. You can bet your life the little swine is already on to his editor with some cock-and-bull story about closing down Trabane. I must say, Leo, you haven't handled the whole business half as well as I had hoped. I can tell you here and now that you've been a big disappointment so far. What we want is a nice quiet closure with no fuss or bother. Instead of which, the whole bloody thing is being blown way out of proportion. You can see for yourself with those fucking placards and some clown defacing the billboard that shutting down Trabane is becoming a major issue. Which, in case you didn't know, is
exactly
what the board of directors
don't
want. You stay here and don't say a bloody word to
anybody,
man, woman, or child, about the bloody closure from now on. Go over and talk to Sir Andrew while I go and see if I can find that bloody reporter and mend a few fences.”

Having found him with difficulty, the PRO spent the rest of his lunch break pouring pints of stout into the reporter in an effort to quell the rumor that Trabane was really going to shut its doors at the end of the month. His task was made no easier by the rumor's being true. Having missed out on most of what looked to have been a festive lunch, a disgruntled PRO joined his colleagues just as the last of the Irish coffees were being drained.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

To the morning's wind, rain had now been added. During lunch it sidled in across the heaving ocean, announcing its arrival with a machine-gun rattle of hail on the clubhouse windows, Sir Andrew, who had lunched lightly in anticipation of the battle that was to come, inwardly welcomed it like an old friend. Some of his happiest hours on a golf course had been spent in foul weather. The pleasure of directing a well-struck ball onto a fairway in blinding rain was keener than he could possibly hope to explain to those fair-weather golfers around the table. They could not appreciate the pure joy of dispatching a crafty pitch-and-run to a bone-hard green in a howling gale and, having judged it to a nicety, watching it scurry obediently up to the flagstick. For him that was a skill far greater that the high-towering lob-wedges to water-soaked putting surfaces, a form of outdoor darts that earned such drooling admiration from excitable television commentators. Best of all, he thought to himself, was putting on an exposed green in a gale. The miracle of links golf was that greens remained hard and fast despite the heaviest rain shower. The deft stroke, the sureness of touch, required to trickle a ball into the tiny cup came only with a lifetime of experience. Or did it?

For the first time in his life he had encountered a youngster who seemed to have been born with the self-same skills that he had taken a lifetime to acquire. A lifetime of enjoyment, he reflected happily, but nonetheless a lifetime. Now, in the twilight of his golfing career, he was facing a new and not especially welcome phenomenon: a young man with a ridiculous golf swing who played the game really well. Not just well, he reminded himself, but honorably. Calling a penalty on himself at the very first hole was in the best traditions of the game. He wondered if the young man was in any way involved in the demonstrations against the bank that had continued to erupt sporadically during their match and decided not. His young opponent just didn't seem the type to indulge in that kind of gamesmanship—quite the opposite in fact. His caddy, the fractious Weeshy, seemed to have coached him well, and none was better versed in the vagaries of Ballykissane than that old reprobate.

He was amused rather than annoyed that the driver that had gone missing from his bag last year should reappear in such unusual circumstances. He had suspected all along that Weeshy had “borrowed” it from him after their bitter argument over a mere shilling. Had the scoundrel not been so short-tempered and insulting, the whole affair would have been amicably resolved long ago. But when Weeshy dragged the name of Her Royal Highness into it, it was a step too far. Still, the scoundrel had forgotten more about golf than anyone around this table, with the possible exception of himself, would ever learn in twenty lifetimes. To make matters worse, Weeshy had a festering grievance to nurse, and this afternoon might well prove the old villain's last chance to settle the score.

He was disturbed from his reverie by that idiot Martin asking if he would like an Irish coffee. How anyone in his right mind could even
contemplate
taking alcohol halfway through an important match was completely beyond him. Of course the man was a complete idiot. Public Relations had been bitching about him recently over the Trabane thing. Or things, rather. For he must not forget the delicate issue of the Maltings' plant, also. It would, of course, depend on what was in the viability report. Either way, things looked bad for Trabane. It was odd that young Lynch came from there. Coincidence, he supposed. Or fate?
Don't be bloody ridiculous,
he told himself.
You're getting too old for this game if you are to start worrying about fate.
Your fate is in your own hands—now what was that idiot's first name again? Liam? Larry—no, that was young Lynch! Leo?
Leo!
That was it! Well, if he had to talk to the blighter, might as well learn something of his opponent's family background. Might just come in useful before the day was out.

“Tell me all about young Lynch, Leo.”

The flustered manager did not need to be asked twice. He embarked on a rambling account of Loopy's family circumstances, his progress as a golfer, and that his family kept an account in his bank. It was disappointing to learn of the family circumstances. The bank recruited from a well-defined family and educational profile, and Loopy's background did not even come close to matching either of these. It was an open secret that ABI employed gifted amateurs in sports such as sailing, tennis, rugby, and golf. They were given a job title that enabled them to maintain their amateur status while drawing a handsome salary from the bank. They were expected to do little more than entertain clients and continue to feature prominently in their chosen sport. Sir Andrew had rather hoped Loopy might qualify for one of these sinecures, but Leo Martin had seemed to make it quite clear that young Lynch's family circumstances were such as to put that out of the question.

He ignored Leo's well-meaning suggestion that his opponent, though a golfer of some promise, would not seriously challenge him that afternoon. Even an idiot like Martin must surely have realized holding a three-time winner of The Atlantic to all-square after eighteen holes could reasonably be construed as a serious challenge.

Sensing that his observations on the probable outcome of the final had not been as well received as he had hoped, Leo fell silent. He could hardly have been expected to regale his lordship with the story of how Loopy had seen him cheating and the subsequent rearrangement of Brona Lynch's bank loan.

Just as they stood up from the table, a braver soul than Leo asked what his lordship thought of his chances. After a long silence, he replied, “I don't really mind whether I win or lose this one. Maybe it's that I'm getting old, but it's been a long time since I've enjoyed a round as much as the one this morning. I can only thank God that good manners and sportsmanship still survive in the modern game. For once I don't feel like an Old Testament prophet crying in the wilderness. That young man is just the sort we need to keep in amateur golf.”

As they left the table, Sir Andrew realized that he had forgotten to interrogate Leo on the closure of his branch. To Sir Andrew it had been, until now, just another item on a crowded agenda. Having seen the placards and heard the occasional catcall, he hoped that there would be no repeat of the unruly scenes that had occurred during the morning round. It was all very well to make the game of golf available to the masses; indeed, he had been advocating this for many years; but if the masses insisted on behaving like football hooligans rather than decent, respectable golf fans, then that was a different kettle of fish.

The club captain, in apologizing to him both as a competitor and a board director of the sponsors, had been confident that the stewards were well on top of the situation. Furthermore, it seemed that many of the later recruits to what one reporter was already describing as “Loopy's Legion” had tired of the contest after an hour or two and headed for the attractions of Ballykissane village. As these consisted of three pubs and four fast-food outlets, he feared for their mood if they should return to the golf course before the match had ended.

Young Lynch was already waiting on the first tee. After a quick handshake and another exchange of
Good lucks,
they were once more on their way. The rain had turned to hail, and the wind had, if anything increased in velocity. All in all, conditions were just about playable. Again the first hole was not without incident. Again Loopy registered a par four—which his lordship equaled by holing out a difficult chip. If the ball had not struck the flagstick and gone in, it would have rolled off the green and back down a steep slope. But it didn't. They were still all square, and Sir Andrew noted that Loopy joined in the general applause for what was a lucky break. At the second, both played low irons conservatively to the right, and even so, Loopy thought for a heart-stopping moment that his ball was going to be blown over the out-of-bounds fence.

Weeshy had no such qualms and called it while still in midair: “Don't worry. Front of green, to the left. Easy chip.”

The hole was halved in par threes and the match was still level; after twenty holes.

At Eternity, Loopy had his one and only lucky break of the round. In his heart he knew that its length, almost six hundred yards, had to be to his advantage over the older man. Sir Andrew had yet to score better than a par five at Eternity. Ballykissane was a traditional layout with tough opening holes of par four, three, and five. Now they were teeing off on the third of these, the twenty-first hole, and all square in the match as Weeshy handed Loopy the driver. The wind was fiercer than ever, gusting from left to right and waiting to blow anything but a perfectly struck shot out of bounds onto the road.

The instructions bellowed in his ear were barely audible above the near hurricane: “Well left, low and hard!”

Standing up to drive the ball, he felt the old sensation return for a fleeting moment or two. The hairs on his neck prickled and a deathly calm enveloped him in a cocoon that silenced the screaming wind and the excited chatter of the spectators. He drew back the club so slowly he felt as if his arms were frozen into a series of jerky frames rather than following a fluid, flowing motion. Still in an oasis of calmness, he watched with trancelike detachment as the ball flew far to the left, low and hard, just as Weeshy had instructed. It flew over the thickest of dune grasses, where, had it dropped back to earth, it would never be found again. For what seemed like an age, it flew in a perfect parabola, borne on the wind to the safety of the fairway, rolling to a halt less than a yard from an evil pot bunker. As if that were not luck enough, it found a gentle uphill lie.