Loopy (32 page)

“I was asking you, would you feel like a four-ball this afternoon? I've Mr. Linhurst booked for a round at two o'clock. If you could organize Pat O'Hara, we'd make up a four. Much more fun than a twosome. Bit of laugh, no serious golf for a change, though you might like to try out a few drivers. If your hand hurts, you can pack it in early. What do you think?”

“Nothing I'd like more. Don't worry about the hand, it's only a bruise and a few gashed knuckles. I'll phone Mam to say I'll be late. Then I'll see if Mr. O'Hara is available.”

Joe gave a hollow laugh. “Oh, he's available all right, don't you worry. He was in the bar at ten o'clock this morning curing himself with coffee, if you don't mind. He'll kill himself with the drink if he doesn't watch it. What was he like in Ballykissane?”

“Not bad at all. Staying with the sister, he hadn't much chance to party.”

“I hear she's a right old bitch, is that right?”

Loopy tried to be diplomatic. “Well, she's no barrel of laughs, that's for sure. I'll go and ask him if he'll play at two o'clock.”

As Joe had said, Pat O'Hara was in the bar. Loopy was relieved to see that he still had nothing more than a sandwich and coffee in front of him.

“Ah, home the conquering hero comes!” The schoolteacher had a subdued, quirky air that Loopy had not sensed before. “Did they tell you Leo is throwing a party for you? Pulling the wool over people's eyes, if you ask me. Bread and circuses for the populace before they close down the bloody bank, that's what friend Leo is up to, mark my word!”

Ignoring this, Loopy asked instead, “Can you make up a four-ball?”

“When?”

“Two o'clock.”

The schoolteacher consulted his watch. “Jaysus, that's in less than half an hour. Yeah, of course I can. I'll have another coffee so. Will you join me?”

“Yes, but I've got to phone home first!”

“Right, you go and do that. Want anything to eat?”

“A club sandwich maybe.”

“Right you are. Who are the other two?”

“In the four-ball, you mean?”

“Yes, that's what I mean.”

“Joe and Mr. Linhurst.”

O'Hara clapped his hands in glee. “Right, my boy. We'll pluck those two pigeons clean and no mistake.” Suddenly the elation in his voice disappeared to be replaced by a more somber, confidential tone. “Do you know what I saw last night?”

“What?”

“Rats, my boy, rats as big as dogs. There they were, two of them sitting down at the end of my bed, staring at me with eyes like burning coals. Damn near scared me to death, I can tell you!”

“Then you woke up, right?”

“Not on your life! Easy known you know damn all about the d.t.'s.”

“D.t.'s? What are they?”

“Ah, the sweet innocence of youth! Delirium tremens, that's what they are. Anyone who drinks as much whiskey as I do is an odds-on bet to get them sooner or later.”

He sounded almost complacent, as if he had been anticipating their arrival for quite a while, which prompted Loopy to ask, “Had them before?”

“No, oddly enough, this was the first time—and the last.” Then, more forcefully: “Once was more than enough. Take my word for it.”

There was a long silence as both considered the implications of that last remark.

“So what are you going to do about it?
Them,
I mean.”

If Loopy expected a flippant reply, he was to be disappointed. The older man unleashed a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his feet before asserting in a voice that brooked no argument, “I've given up the drink, that's what I'm going to do about it!”

Another even longer silence greeted this.

O'Hara seemed to feel some further explanation was required. “It wasn't
just
the rats. I didn't tell anyone this before now, but the last time I was in hospital the doctors warned me that I'd be dead inside the year if I didn't quit.”

“That didn't stop you drinking the minute you got out of there, did it?”

“True for you, but I didn't have much to live for then. Now things are beginning to look up, what with yourself winning The Atlantic for starters. So I changed my mind—or rather, those bloody big rats changed it for me.”

*   *   *

Joe had left a message on Edward Linhurst's answering machine saying that their game had been switched to a four-ball. As the four golfers strolled down the fairway, they chatted easily among themselves. Linhurst first spoke of Loopy's big win and then of his daughter Amy's new career as a business consultant. He was obviously unaware of how much Loopy knew about her by now or of their plans to see so much more of each other from now on. O'Hara, for his part, speculated on how far Leo Martin would push out the ABI boat at the Gala Dinner but did not refer to his going on the wagon. Joe teased Loopy about the speech he would have to make, having brought along a selection of drivers for Loopy to try out. Since The Atlantic, Loopy had been seeking a replacement. It was not so long ago, O'Hara reminisced, when all Loopy would have had to do was go to the nearest golf professional and have a club, made to his specifications. Although both Sir Andrew and Loopy had used drivers with wooden heads, the days of the traditional club-maker were dead and gone and nothing was going to change that. The testing of the various drivers, with O'Hara making pithy observations on the appearance and price of each, made for a lighthearted round of golf. Nor was any reference made to the injured hand.

Soon talk turned to what Loopy was going to do next. His handicap would be plus two by the end of the month, which, Joe explained, would allow him to play in all the big amateur events. There was, however, the matter of money. As Loopy had seen for himself, playing in such tournaments was expensive. Right now he simply could not afford to join the amateur circuit. If he were very, very lucky, he might be offered a job with some institution like a bank or an insurance company. That would enable him to play in some of the big events, but that was a chance in a million. As Edward Linhurst drily observed, banks nowadays were answerable to shareholders, and hiring staff on their golfing prowess alone was simply not on. Pat O'Hara insisted yet again that Loopy should graduate before finally deciding what he would do. This did not appeal to Loopy, but he spared O'Hara's feelings by remaining silent.

Joe Delany was even more circumspect. His view was that Loopy had indeed won The Atlantic, but that was just
one
event. It might have been a fluke or it could mean that he had a special talent for the game. The only way to find out, Joe insisted, was for Loopy to pit himself against the best. When he asked how this might be done, Joe snapped, “Q school!”

“
What?
You can't be serious. You mean qualifying school, the one for the pros?” Loopy couldn't believe his ears. “Are you trying to tell me that I should turn
pro?
Is
that
it?”

The thought had never occurred to him—not in his wildest dreams. It was one thing to make a living from the golf club, tending bar and the driving range. To earn his living actually playing
competitively
had never crossed his mind.

Pat O'Hara, as usual, disagreed with the others. “You know damn well that I never approved of you leaving school early. You did because you had to, I suppose, what with your father going off to England and all that. I wanted you to finish your education so that you could make something of yourself in the world. Everyone needs some sort of qualification to get ahead. If you're not careful, all you'll have to show for the most important years of your life is a good golf game. I'm no judge, but you seemed to have something special going for you when you won at Ballykissane. As Joe says, you're as good as the rest of amateurs now with your plus-two handicap, but you can't afford to play with them. We both saw what it costs to play just one tournament, and that was only up the road, so just imagine what it would set you back with travel, caddies, hotels, and the like. What you need is a proper job that allows you to play the amateur circuit, and you're not going to get a job like that unless you are properly qualified for something or other. The first step along that road, my lad, is to bloody
graduate,
and don't mind what the rest of them may tell you!”

The talk drifted to other topics for a while, then Joe steered it back to Loopy's future once more, saying, “Maybe Pat's right for once.” O'Hara grunted but did not interrupt. “The Q school is probably out of the question. First there's the expense. It's well over a thousand pounds to enter. Another drawback is that it's over six rounds, not the usual four. Guys I know who've played in all the big tournaments say every one of those one hundred and eight holes is tougher than playing the first hole of The Open.”

Edward Linhurst was able to confirm this. “A friend of mine who played in the Walker Cup before turning pro swears that playing for your country is a cakewalk compared to the Q school.”

The discussion had brought them to a halt, but with people waiting behind them, it was time to move on.

As they hurried toward the green, O'Hara questioned this. “Why the extra pressure, Joe? I thought The Atlantic was about as tough as it gets, pressure-wise.”

Joe shook his head with a hollow laugh. “Don't get me wrong. What Loopy did was fantastic. I'm proud as hell of him and there's nothing I'd like better than to see him do well in the pro game. But you'd better believe me that Q school is a killer. Two hundred hungry golfers fighting it out with each other like animals for a player's card to get a crack at the tour.”

“How many get a card?” Loopy forced out the question though his throat was dry. He was uncomfortable at having his future discussed so openly in front of him. He was also a bit surprised that Amy had not told her father how close they had become. Perhaps she had gone off the whole thing—which to Loopy was far more disturbing than this talk of his future, especially the Q school.

“Thirty-five eventually. After four rounds, seventy-five get to play the final two rounds. Then the thirty-five lowest scores get their card—for the year.”

“For the
year?
” Loopy was incredulous. “Just a
year
? What happens after that?”

Joe couldn't help but smile at the look of dismay on Loopy's face. He explained gently, “Well, last year forty-four got cards. That was the lowest thirty-five plus those tying on the last qualifying score. Of those forty-four, only eleven managed to win enough to stay on the tour.”

“Jaysus, Joe…” O'Hara looked genuinely shocked. Being off the drink had made him edgy, but this genuinely caught him unawares. “I didn't realize it was
that
bad. Are you
sure
those figures are right?”

“Positive. I checked them out this very morning. Three-quarters of those who
did
get their card had to go back and do it all over again the following year. Only some of them didn't bother. Couldn't face the torture all over again, I expect. Only sixteen of them came back for a second dose of the medicine.”

“What happened to the others?” Loopy had to know.

Joe shrugged. “Who knows? Some of 'em gave up golf altogether, I expect. Others probably went back to being teaching pros, just like me.”

“Were you ever tempted to give it a go?” Loopy just
had
to ask that question.

“Of course, but I was never good enough. Couldn't afford to anyway, even if my game was up to it. Married early, commitments, that kind of thing…” Joe's voice trailed off, then became stronger as it took on a wistful note. “And believe me, it was a damn sight easier to get a card then—and hold on to it—than it is today.”

There followed a long silence, eventually broken by Edward Linhurst asking Loopy, “Well, what do you think?”

“Doesn't really matter, does it? The thought of turning pro never even crossed my mind until just now. Anyway, it's out of the question.”

When no one pressed him on this, he felt he owed them an explanation. “Look, I've something to tell you all, only please don't let it go any further.”

O'Hara cut in quickly, “If it's about your father, the whole village knows by now that he was back. For a short visit, I'm told. Shorter than he intended by all accounts. Is that what happened to your knuckles?”

Loopy nodded ruefully. He turned away, not wanting them to see him blinking back the tears. When he had recovered some of his composure, he answered O'Hara, “Yeah, that's what happened. So you can see why I can't suddenly take myself off to some foreign country to try to qualify as a pro. With my father gone again, probably for good this time, someone has to replace him—and I'm the eldest. The sooner I get a proper job the better, and golf will have to take a backseat for the time being.”

They lapsed into silence for a while, each left with his own thoughts. Then they spoke idly of other things—their play, the condition of the course—the sort of things golfers discuss during a friendly and sociable round of golf. They arrived at the last hole without mentioning Loopy's future again, each still lost in his own thoughts. In a strange way each felt cheated in some way.

Joe Delany, without quite realizing it, hoped that through Loopy he could yet live out his earlier ambition to become a touring pro. Fate had unexpectedly handed him an uncut gemstone in the form of Loopy that he had hoped to shape and hone into a glittering diamond. Now the stone had shattered at the first cut. The future held nothing more for Joe than the dreary business of giving lessons, selling golf gear, and making sporadic love to bored wives.

Pat O'Hara, too, had a sense of loss, though he found it hard to put a finger on exactly why this should be. It wasn't the drink, though being off it just a few hours was already making him irritable. He told himself that life had something better to offer than a whiskey-soaked future and had hoped that he could have guided this young man in his post–Atlantic Trophy future. Now it looked as if this amazing golf talent was about to join the stampede of youngsters desperately seeking a run-of-the-mill job rather than following his star, however distant it might appear. O'Hara's salvation, too, might have depended on the unique talent he had stumbled across that afternoon Loopy had driven the thirteenth green. In all his years teaching, he had never found anyone who had lived up to, much less exceeded, his expectations for him. Now, like an exhausted miner on his last dig, he had unearthed a nugget of purest gold when he'd least expected it. He might have passed his twilight days in following his pupil's progress on and off the golf course and, in doing so, worked out some kind of salvation for himself.