Loopy (8 page)

He drove a three-year-old car, his golf equipment was far from new, and he rarely if ever tried to buy a round of drinks out of turn. As for any dislike of Leo, his dealings with the bank manager had, up till then, been run-of-the-mill. The invitation to dinner at Leo's, he supposed, must have been suggested by Leo's superiors as the opening shot in a campaign to get more of his business. Yes, that must have been it, Linhurst decided, for he had bought The Old Rectory through Leo's bank and they would have checked out his financial standing as a matter of routine. The next step would, predictably, have been for them to encourage Leo to do all in his power to get some of Linhurst's banking business.

That he was unable to accept Leo's invitation may have caused the first coolness between them. The invitation had arrived at a particularly chaotic period in the restoration of The Old Rectory. Builders, plumbers, and electricians were all engaged in a form of guerrilla warfare with each other. Only the landscape gardeners were content merely to squabble among themselves. That, of course, was on the rare occasions when they bothered to show up at all.

It was just then that Amy, his only daughter, had announced herself for the weekend. Having done everything she could to effect a reconciliation between her parents, she now took her mother's side in everything. When Linhurst told his family that he was retiring, no one, least of all Amy, believed him. It was dismissed as nothing more than a midlife crisis brought on by the divorce. When his retirement looked to be lasting longer than expected, Amy had decided to check it out for herself. She could hardly have chosen a worse moment.

Electricity had just been cut off and the water supply gave up the ghost shortly after her arrival. The thunderstorm that had caused these twin disasters had also, almost as an afterthought, stripped half the slates from the new roof. What annoyed her most of all was that her father appeared to take these calamities in his stride. He had nothing but praise for everyone and everything in this rathole of a village. He enthused about how refreshing it was that people remembered his name in shops and bars and waved to him on the street. He filled his lungs with fresh air on long walks along the beach, and he had fallen head over heels in love with the local golf course.

“Pure linksland,” he burbled happily, “you couldn't play on better turf. Just what Saint Andrew's must have been like before the tourists swarmed all over it. If it were anywhere else, the world would be beating a path to its door. That's how good it is!”

She had to admit that he had never looked better. The deathly pallor of his days doing “something in the city” had gone. There was a spring in his step and a cheerfulness about him that she had never seen before.

Yet in no way could she share his enthusiasm for such a godforsaken spot. She had little doubt that her father would transform the house and grounds into something special—he had already done just that on two previous occasions. The home her mother had acquired as part of the divorce settlement was outstanding even in the London stockbroker belt where splendid residences were two a penny.

It was a pity, she would report to her mother, that they had argued for so much of the weekend. She had arrived overwrought, tense and blaming her father for the family breakup. Her humor was not improved when services taken for granted everywhere else had failed in the case of The Old Rectory. Her father's suggestion that they accept a dinner invitation from the local bank manager was the last straw.

She stamped her foot in exasperation. “I came here to see
you,
Daddy. Now I'm no sooner inside this … this …
house
and you want me to go out to bloody dinner with complete strangers. Not on your life!”

When Linhurst phoned Leo with his regrets, he got the impression that the bank manager was less than pleased. He was not to know that in Trabane an invitation to dinner from the bank manager was something not to be lightly declined. The weekend, despite its setbacks, had gone sufficiently well for Amy to promise to return in the near future.

Now, good as her word and completely out of the blue, she had arrived by bus that very morning. Linhurst would happily have withdrawn from the tournament that afternoon to be with her, but Amy would not hear of it.

“You go play your silly golf and I'll cook dinner. That way you can see where at least
some
of my school fees went, Father dear!” Then she had set off along the beach, barefoot, with the spaniel gamboling at her heels one moment, then launching himself into a frenzied attack on seagulls that waited until the last moment before taking flight, leaving the dog with nothing more substantial to chew on than a triumphant squawk.

Linhurst pushed the picture of Amy and the dog to the back of his mind as he watched Loopy hitting one golf ball after another with that incredible loop at the top of his swing. The distance the ball was traveling was quite stunning, even if the direction was erratic. All the while he was desperately searching for the right response to the offer of repayment—one that would not offend the lad. Eventually he settled for “Don't worry about the money for now. If you can pay me back, well and good—otherwise not to worry.”

Then, to change the subject, he observed, “You're hitting that ball a long, long way.”

Loopy would not be deflected so easily. He put the club he was using back in the bag and looked Linhurst straight in the eye as he spoke. “My father left Trabane a while back owing nearly everyone in the town. If I ever get to sell the hay he left behind him, you'll be paid right after the bank. You have my word on that, sir.”

“Do you mean Mr. Martin's bank?”

“Yes, sir. My father borrowed money before he took off to England. The bank have been writing letters to my mother ever since.”

“What did she say—to the bank, I mean?”

Loopy had never discussed this with anyone before, but this Englishman seemed genuinely interested. “She told Mr. Martin that when the hay was sold, he'd get his money.”

“And did he?”

“No. He got two hundred and forty pounds. Then I fell off the trailer and hurt my leg again. The rest of the hay is still in the barn. It will keep forever as long as it under cover and kept dry—that's not the problem.”

“What is the problem then?”

“Now that my leg's nearly better, no one seems to want hay.”

“Why is that? What causes the drop-off in demand for the hay?”

“Well, y'see, when the fine weather comes, the cattle are left out on grass. Why would anyone pay for hay when the grass is there for free? Anyway, I can't deliver it myself. The doctor told me that if I went near a hurling field or a hay trailer, he'd have the guards on me!”

They both resumed hitting golf balls, then Linhurst stopped in midswing. “What about horses?”

“How do mean, sir?”

“I mean, don't horses eat hay all the year round?”

“Some of them do alright. But not the ones around Trabane.”

Now it was Linhurst's turn to sound perplexed. “Are Trabane horses any different from the rest of the world?”

“Ah, no, that's not what I meant at all, sir. The horses that eat hay all year round are racing horses, show jumpers, that class of an animal. There's none of those around here. The horses we have in this part of the country would only be good for foxhunting or the odd point-to-point race. That class of horse is put out on grass for most of the year, just like the cattle.”

They finished practicing and walked back to the clubhouse together.

“Are you playing in the tournament this afternoon?”

“I can't, sir. I still haven't got an official handicap, and anyway Mr. Delany says I'm not ready yet. He says I need to sort out my short game—the chipping and putting part of it.”

Linhurst nodded. It made sense, he supposed, not to push the lad too far too fast, and yet … Linhurst believed that the sooner Loopy got the taste for battle, the tightening of the gut that comes with the pressure of real competition, the sooner he might discover what the future held in store for him. It was one thing to hit perfect shots nine times out of ten on the practice ground but quite a different matter to reproduce them where it counted, in competition.

“Are you caddying for the schoolmaster then?” Linhurst's tone was almost too casual for he already knew the answer.

“No, sir. Mr. O'Hara has had to go to the hospital for a checkup. He won't be playing golf for a while, he thinks.”

“Does that mean you are out of a job—as his caddy, I mean?”

Loopy sounded doubtful at first. “I suppose so…” He added by way of explanation, “Y'see, Mr. O'Hara hasn't been well in himself this long while.”

Linhurst said nothing. It was no secret that the schoolmaster was drinking more than ever since the start of the summer vacation. Up to now the discipline of having to show up sober five mornings a week had placed a curb on his drinking. Once this restraint had been removed, he'd “climbed straight into the whiskey bottle,” as Leo Martin had so unkindly put it. Not that Leo himself was a paragon of virtue in that regard.

“Would you caddy for me instead, starting this afternoon? And don't think you have to because of that subscription business or anything like that.”

“Nothing I'd like better, sir.”

“Good! Would two o'clock suit you?”

“That'll be fine, sir. I go on bar duty at six, but we should be well finished before then.”

At two o'clock sharp Edward Linhurst was ready to hit off the first tee, watched by Loopy and Michael Spillane, CC, curate of Trabane parish. The priest's delight at seeing Loopy was genuine.

“Larry Lynch! I never expected to see you here. What does the GAA think of you playing foreign games?” In an aside to Linhurst, the priest explained, “In case you don't know, I'm the patron of the local hurling team, the Trabane Gaels.”

“Good for you. Quite an honor, I expect,” Linhurst murmured politely, being more interested in getting the round under way than wasting time in what sounded like idle chatter.

“Not
that
much of an honor, to be honest. Every GAA club in the country has its local priest as patron. They do it”—he broke off to run his finger around inside the stiff white collar worn by clergymen and priests in Ireland—“from a mixture of fear and respect for the collar.”

The priest turned again to Loopy. “I heard you had left school. Pat O'Hara was giving out like hell about that. Any word from your father?”

“Not a word—or a penny, Father.”

The priest pursed his lips, nodding in sympathy. “Try not to worry about it too much. It may be all for the best in the long run. In the meantime I'll say the odd prayer for you.”

With that he plucked a club from his bag and hit a solid drive down the middle of the fairway. As he stopped to retrieve his tee, he looked back at his playing partner. “The usual pound, okay? The bishop warned me not to play retired millionaires for big money.”

It was a standing joke between them. Linhurst affected a tone of weary resignation. “Okay. Do you want it now or do we have to go through the ritual of eighteen holes before I hand it over to you?” In a stage whisper to Loopy, Linhurst muttered, “This man takes money off me
every
time. He's a seventeen handicap but plays to single figures. Priest or not, I'll never know how he gets away with it.”

They strode down the first fairway at a brisk pace, which they maintained right through the round, finishing in well under three hours. The result was a win for Linhurst—as welcome as it was unexpected—because he had played better, far better, than usual. As both men signed their cards before dropping them into the wooden scorebox in the changing room, Linhurst suggested, “A drink, perhaps?”

The priest glanced at his watch. “Just time for one. I'm hearing confessions at half past five. Here's your pound and well done—that was as good as I've seen you play. Maybe you should offer Larry a permanent job as your caddy. He seems to bring the best out of you. By the way, why were you calling him Loopy?”

When it was explained to him, he stared at Loopy in wonderment. “Well, to be honest, I'm not
all
that surprised. I never saw a better striker of the ball on a hurling field.” Turning to Linhurst, the priest explained, “Though the last free he took from the sideline nearly got him killed. But that's all over and done with now, thanks be to God.” Then brightening, he asked Loopy, “What do you think of this game of golf? Do you still think it's a game for snobs?”

Loopy thought for a moment before answering as truthfully as he could, “I haven't met any so far, Father, but then I haven't been at it all that long, so it's probably a bit early to say.”

“Spoken like a true diplomat,” Linhurst interjected. “Now we had better get you that drink.”

Joe Delany and his wife, Linda, were on duty behind the bar. “How did you get on?” Joe inquired.

The priest forced a grin as he pointed an accusing finger at Linhurst. “He took a pound off me without even working up a sweat. Those lessons you're giving him are working miracles. Wouldn't surprise me if he won the tournament with the score he's just brought in. He'll lose a shot off his handicap, that's for sure. No harm either, the way he's playing.”

Linda beckoned Loopy over to where she was serving at the other end of the bar. “I'm really in a bind. I have to get something for the dinner before the shops close. Could you ever take over here right away?”

Loopy was behind the bar when Pat O'Hara made his entrance, just moments after Father Spillane had rushed off to hear confessions in the nearby church. The schoolteacher joined Linhurst and Joe Delany, with Loopy on duty behind the bar counter. O'Hara had been discharged from hospital that morning after undergoing a series of tests, about which he declined to elaborate except to remark that all doctors were bastards. His slurred words suggested that this was not his first drink of the day.