Loopy (31 page)

“But it
is
my business now. Since you left, things have never been better, isn't that so, Mam?”

Brona, though no longer as timid as before, was still reluctant to admit that this was so in front of her husband. After all, he
was
her husband, but then her son was the best godsend any mother had ever had. He had sold the hay, cleared the bank debt, and made a better life for them all. Even that awful Leo Martin was now bidding her the time of day whenever they passed on the street. The girls were happy and well fed. Was all this going to end because Sean chose to walk through the door uninvited? No, by God, it damn well was not.

Her voice took on a harder edge as she replied, “Sean, there's no two ways about it—Larry is right. Things are a whole lot better since you left.”

“There you are so, Da,
that's
your answer! You weren't there when we needed you, so why are you back here now, all of a sudden?”

“For my share of that hay you sold to your fancy friend.”

“
Your
share? Are you out of your mind? Whatever you might have heard in town before you got here,
your
share is gone to pay off
your
debts. You ran out of here owing everyone except the cat. Now it's all paid off and you have the nerve to walk in here out of the blue, looking for money. If you were any good, you'd have sent
home
some bloody money to feed your children instead of losing it to the bookmakers or pissing it down the gutters of Birmingham.”

Loopy had got to his feet as he was saying this. Now his father pushed back his chair from the table and did likewise.

“I don't have to take that kind of shit from anyone, least of all my own son. Just because you won some bloody golf thing doesn't entitle you to answer me back like that. 'Twas far you were reared from golf, that's for sure. If those snobs up at the Golf Club have made you forget your manners since I left, then it's high time I taught you some.”

Loopy was shaking with rage as his mother tried to keep them apart.

“Sean, for God's sake, don't start a fight the minute you walk in the door. There must be some way we can settle all this.”

“I'll settle it quick enough, don't you worry, Brona. But first I have to put some manners on this lad.”

Father and son glared at each other, their faces inches apart. Loopy felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as he growled, “Anything you have to teach me can be done out in the yard. That way we won't wake the girls. No, Mam”—raising a hand to stifle her protests, he continued—“this has to be done and done
now.
There's no way of getting around it. It's been coming a long, long time. No way is
he
going to walk in here and ruin all our lives all over again. I'd kill him first.”

Turning to his father, Loopy nodded toward the door and said in a voice he barely recognized as his own, “C'mon outside and teach me that lesson you're talking about.”

Before they had even squared up to each other, Brona was already ringing the police station. By the time Sergeant Keane arrived, Sean was more than glad to see him. Sean had had the occasional punch-up in Birmingham, but no one had ever come at him with anything like the murderous ferocity of his own son. Loopy had hit him before he was ready, then followed up his advantage with a vicious knee to the groin. After that it was all downhill. Every time Sean struggled to his feet, Loopy knocked him down again. Shortly before the police car arrived, it had dawned on Sean that he was going to suffer less pain if he remained lying down. Brona had been watching from the doorway, praying that no one would be killed.

Sergeant Keane was an old friend of the family's who knew all about Sean and his hasty departure. “Ah, Sean,” he addressed the prostrate figure in the friendliest manner, “is that yourself? Aren't you a stupid man to go and fall in your own backyard. Is that blood on your face? And there's your son helping you up to your feet. Just like a good son should. And he
is
a good son, make no mistake. Not a bit like his father. Steady on there, Sean, now don't be exciting yourself till you hear me out. Did you know, by any chance, that there's a bit of a warrant out for you? That's right, a bench warrant for your arrest. That's right. Some bookmaker or other took you to court while you were away in England, so he did. I didn't want to bother your missus, especially since the postman tells me she hasn't heard from you since you left. Can't you calm down now, Sean, like a good man and listen to me carefully, because I'm only going to say this the one time. If you get into the back of the car with me this minute, I'll give you a lift to the railway station. Then you can get on a train that'll take you to the next boat back to England. That way it'll make things easier on yourself and everyone else. Now, of course, if that doesn't suit you and you'd prefer to stay on 'round here, then, of course, that's entirely up to yourself. But I have to warn you that if you don't get on that train like I'm suggesting, I'll have to lock you up in the barracks till the next court day. It's ten to one that you'll go to jail after that. A betting man like yourself should know that those are bad odds—even for a gambler like Sean Lynch. Now,
you
wouldn't like me to have to lock you up, would you? No, I thought not. Well, there it is all explained clear as day for you. Hop in the car and go back where you came from or stay at home and go to jail.”

Sean got in the car and waited wordlessly for Sergeant Keane to finish speaking to Brona, standing by the open door with Loopy's arm draped around her shoulders.

“That's it so, missus. It'll be like nothing ever happened at all. You never saw me—or Sean, for that matter. You see if word got out that Sean was back here, I'd be in terrible trouble altogether for not serving him with that bench warrant. Tell you what, though, missus, if you'll take my advice, you'll swear out a barring order against him one of these days. Then if he
does
show up again uninvited, all you have to do is phone me at the barracks. That way there'll be no need for young Larry here to run the risk of ruining that golf swing of his by hurting his hand the way he did just now.”

Sergeant Keane gave mother and son a knowing wink and was gone with his passenger before they had closed the door behind them.

“Do you think he'll be back?”

“Not if you get the barring order like the sergeant says you should.”

Brona thought for a moment. “I'll apply for it first thing tomorrow.”

Next morning they drove into town together, Brona to see a lawyer and Loopy the doctor. The lawyer helped her to fill out the court application for a barring order against “one Sean Lynch.” She smiled through her tears as she expressed the hope that there wasn't more than one of him, but the solicitor didn't quite see the black humor of it, so she let it pass. Loopy's having his knuckles bandaged by the doctor required the telling of lies. He tried to remember to tell the same lie to Tim Porter when he met him outside the surgery door.

“Great bloody win, Larry!”

“Lucky, Tim, lucky.”

“Luck my arse! Everyone tells me you played out of your bloody skin. What happened to the hand?”

“I slipped and fell in the yard at home. You okay yet?”

“Dunno till the sawbones takes a peek at me. That's why I'm here. Tell you something though. Don't ever fool around with your kidneys,
absolute
bloody agony! Only thing they let me drink is bloody water, bloody great
gallons
of the stuff. Now tell me about the speech you're going to make.”

“What speech? You know I'm no good at speeches, Tim.”

“Well, you're going to have to make one at the bloody dinner, you know.”

“What dinner is that?”

“The
Gala
Dinner. For chrissakes!”

“Gala Dinner? What are you
talking
about?”

Tim gulped. Realizing that he had let the cat out of the bag, he could only blurt out, “I thought they'd told you! Christ, I hope it wasn't meant to be a
surprise
or anything.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Loopy found Joe Delany giving a lesson and waited for him to finish. While Loopy waited, a group of youngsters on a summer training program asked for his autograph. He tried to look as if he were accustomed to doing this every day of the week, when, in fact, this was his first time ever. He signed golf balls, old scorecards, even a school copybook. When he signed
Larry
Lynch, they insisted that he sign himself as
Loopy
Lynch. That was what everyone was calling him now, and it looked as if the name was going to stick.

Joe appeared, grinning broadly. “Now how's the game with you?”

“Dunno really, haven't caught a golf club since I got back. Too many things happening.”

Joe nodded, looking at the injured hand. “Yeah, I know. Not least your Gala Dinner. That should be a bit of fun anyway. Everyone determined to get pissed as newts at Leo's expense. Pat says it's just a softening-up exercise before they close down the bloody bank. Still and all, if they're throwing a party in your honor, the least you can do is to go and enjoy yourself at it.”

“Oh, yeah? Tim Porter tells me I have to make a speech.”

“Of course you do. Didn't you make a grand one after The Atlantic?”

“That was in the heat of the moment. I didn't know where I was with all the excitement going on around me.”

“Just as well you remembered to thank Weeshy. He'd never have forgiven you if you forgot him. You wouldn't want that old divil as an enemy, that's for sure.”

Loopy agreed. He didn't tell Joe what had happened to the driver. He had almost forgotten the incident until Joe's mention of the caddy jogged his memory. Suddenly he was back standing in the carpark of Ballykissane. The presentation of the Atlantic Trophy was long over, the crowds had gone home, and Weeshy was putting the golf clubs into the back of O'Hara's car. He stopped to remove the old driver from Loopy's bag, muttering, “I'll mind it till the next time.”

Loopy thanked him for letting him use it, then asked him what he owed him.

“Your friend looked after all that before he left with his daughter, anyways. A grand girl she is, too. Keen on yourself, I'd say. Well, she could do worse, I suppose. A decent man that Linhurst fella, if ever there was one. He gave me enough to keep me drunk for a week. Oh, he did indeed. Not like that mean shagger comin' towards us, anyways—sure he wouldn't give you the time of day!”

Weeshy turned his back on the approaching figure of Sir Andrew, who was striding toward them, golf bag slung over his shoulders and a pair of spiked brogues clasped in one hand. He had the air of someone just finishing a friendly round rather than that of the defeated finalist at a premier event. Ignoring Weeshy's back, he made for Loopy with an outstretched hand.

“I know we had that chat about Trabane and all that before the presentation, but I never got the chance to properly congratulate you after the match. Your fans whisked you away before I could shake your hand. You're a good golfer and have the makings of a great one.” Addressing Weeshy, who had turned round to see what was going on, Sir Andrew asked innocently but with a mischievous smile, looking the caddy straight in the eye, “Isn't that so, Weeshy, old boy?”

When Weeshy made no reply save for a grunt, Sir Andrew turned back to Loopy.

“Y'know, they say that time and tide wait for no man. I think Weeshy knows different. That tactical delay of yours on the fourteenth tee when you waited for the wind to drop as the tide changed was a stroke of genius.” He chuckled as he pointed toward Weeshy. “I'll bet my last penny that old reprobate put you up to it. Anyway, well done. You deserved to win. So refreshing to see the game is still sometimes played as it was meant to be—fair and square and with no quarter asked or given.”

With that Sir Andrew turned on his heel and made for his car, an impressive-looking Bentley. He stopped in midstride as if something had suddenly occurred to him.

“I say, Weeshy, old chap, would you mind awfully if I had another look at that driver of yours. It's awfully like one I used to have until quite recently.”

Weeshy handed it over without a word, not even a grunt. Sir Andrew examined it carefully, even going so far as to give it a loving swish of a practice swing. No one said a word. The carpark was silent as a grave.

Eventually Sir Andrew broke the silence, looking straight at Weeshy as he declared, “Interesting club that. Very like one I had myself. Not many of them around nowadays, eh, Weeshy?”

When this elicited nothing more than a grunt from the caddy, Sir Andrew turned to Loopy. “Young man, you certainly used it to good effect. I hope our mutual friend”—Sir Andrew nodded toward Weeshy—“will see fit to loan it to you whenever you feel you may need it. As I said earlier, it was a pleasure to compete against you today, and no doubt about it, the best man won.” He extended his hand and took Loopy's in a firm clasp. “I take it you can be reached at Trabane Golf Club should the occasion arise.”

With that Sir Andrew handed the club back to Weeshy without comment and strode briskly to his car. Moments later Weeshy, the driver tucked inside his coat, stalked off toward the village with the familiar rolling gait that made him seem to glide over the ground.

It was over, an anticlimax if ever there was one to the greatest day of Loopy's life. Slowly, all the energy drained out of him, Loopy plodded back toward Pat O'Hara, who was waiting impatiently to be driven back to Trabane.

Suddenly now, Joe Delany's voice cut through Loopy's woolgathering.

“Sorry, Joe, I didn't quite catch that. I was miles away there for a moment.”