consult you more about Mr. Kipling when I’ve finished my book?” The sky began to spit fat drops of rain and a cold gust of wind whipped dust and litter against his legs. The sadness vanished and he thought how glorious the day was.
“My dear lady, I would be absolutely delighted,” he said. “I am completely at your disposal.”
6
T he golf club was built on the water side of the Downs, on a low promontory that ended in a roll of grass-backed dunes. The greens ranged in quality from thick green turf, clipped to perfection, to patchy brown areas, invaded by dune grass and prone to sudden spurts of sand whipped up into the face by wind gusts. The thirteenth hole was famous for Dame Eunice, a huge Romney Marsh ewe who kept the grass cropped to the limit of her rusty chain. Visitors, especially the occasional American, might be told that it was customary to take practice swings at the large blobs of sheep droppings. A rusty shovel for cleaning up was kept in the small box on a post that also contained a manual ball-washer. Some of the newest members had been heard to complain about Eunice; in the new era of world-class golf resorts and corporate golf outings, they were worried that she made their club look like some kind of miniature golf outfit. The Major was part of the group who defended Eunice and who thought the new members’ attitude reflected poor standards by the club’s nomination committee. He also enjoyed referring to Eunice as ‘environmentally friendly’.
The Major, feeling his spirits lift with the early morning light, and the smell of the sea and the grass, gave Eunice a surreptitious pat as he shooed her away from the green where his ball lay near the southern edge. Alec was scything dune grass with his wedge, the bald spot on his head shining in the chilly sunshine. The Major waited patiently with his putter on his shoulder, enjoying the low arc of the bay: miles of sand and ceaseless water washed with silver by the cloudy light.
“Bloody grass. Cuts you to ribbons,” said Alec, red in the face and stamping down a clump with his cleats.
“Careful there, old chap,” said the Major. “The ladies’ environmental committee’ll be after you.”
“Bloody women and their bloody dune habitats,” said Alec, stamping more furiously. “Why can’t they leave well enough alone?” The ladies of the club had become recent advocates for more responsible golf course management. Posters manufactured on a home computer had begun appearing on the bulletin board urging members to keep off the dunes and advising of wildlife nestings. Alma was one of the prime agitators and the board had responded by asking Alec to head a subcommittee to explore environmental issues. It was quite obvious that the poor man was cracking under the pressure.
“How is Alma?” asked the Major.
“Won’t leave me in peace,” replied Alec. He was on his hands and knees now forcing his hands into the clumps. “What with the environmental nonsense and now the annual dance, she’s just driving me crazy.”
“Ah, the annual dance.” The Major smiled and knew he was being unkind. “And what is our theme this year?” It was a source of annoyance to the Major that what had once been a very refined black tie dance, with a simple steak menu and a good band, had been turned into a series of increasingly elaborate theme evenings.
“They haven’t made the final decision,” said Alec. He stood up, defeated, and brushed off his plus fours.
“They will be hard pressed to exceed the ‘Last Days of Pompeii’,” said the Major.
“Don’t remind me,” said Alec. “I still have nightmares of being stuck inside that gladiator costume.” Alma had rented costumes unseen from a shop in London and poor Alec had been forced to clank around all night in a close-fitting metal helmet while his neck swelled up. Alma had ordered herself a ‘Lady of the Mysteries’ costume, which turned out to be a courtesan’s sheer and garishly
“My dear lady, I would be absolutely delighted,” he said. “I am completely at your disposal.”
6
T he golf club was built on the water side of the Downs, on a low promontory that ended in a roll of grass-backed dunes. The greens ranged in quality from thick green turf, clipped to perfection, to patchy brown areas, invaded by dune grass and prone to sudden spurts of sand whipped up into the face by wind gusts. The thirteenth hole was famous for Dame Eunice, a huge Romney Marsh ewe who kept the grass cropped to the limit of her rusty chain. Visitors, especially the occasional American, might be told that it was customary to take practice swings at the large blobs of sheep droppings. A rusty shovel for cleaning up was kept in the small box on a post that also contained a manual ball-washer. Some of the newest members had been heard to complain about Eunice; in the new era of world-class golf resorts and corporate golf outings, they were worried that she made their club look like some kind of miniature golf outfit. The Major was part of the group who defended Eunice and who thought the new members’ attitude reflected poor standards by the club’s nomination committee. He also enjoyed referring to Eunice as ‘environmentally friendly’.
The Major, feeling his spirits lift with the early morning light, and the smell of the sea and the grass, gave Eunice a surreptitious pat as he shooed her away from the green where his ball lay near the southern edge. Alec was scything dune grass with his wedge, the bald spot on his head shining in the chilly sunshine. The Major waited patiently with his putter on his shoulder, enjoying the low arc of the bay: miles of sand and ceaseless water washed with silver by the cloudy light.
“Bloody grass. Cuts you to ribbons,” said Alec, red in the face and stamping down a clump with his cleats.
“Careful there, old chap,” said the Major. “The ladies’ environmental committee’ll be after you.”
“Bloody women and their bloody dune habitats,” said Alec, stamping more furiously. “Why can’t they leave well enough alone?” The ladies of the club had become recent advocates for more responsible golf course management. Posters manufactured on a home computer had begun appearing on the bulletin board urging members to keep off the dunes and advising of wildlife nestings. Alma was one of the prime agitators and the board had responded by asking Alec to head a subcommittee to explore environmental issues. It was quite obvious that the poor man was cracking under the pressure.
“How is Alma?” asked the Major.
“Won’t leave me in peace,” replied Alec. He was on his hands and knees now forcing his hands into the clumps. “What with the environmental nonsense and now the annual dance, she’s just driving me crazy.”
“Ah, the annual dance.” The Major smiled and knew he was being unkind. “And what is our theme this year?” It was a source of annoyance to the Major that what had once been a very refined black tie dance, with a simple steak menu and a good band, had been turned into a series of increasingly elaborate theme evenings.
“They haven’t made the final decision,” said Alec. He stood up, defeated, and brushed off his plus fours.
“They will be hard pressed to exceed the ‘Last Days of Pompeii’,” said the Major.
“Don’t remind me,” said Alec. “I still have nightmares of being stuck inside that gladiator costume.” Alma had rented costumes unseen from a shop in London and poor Alec had been forced to clank around all night in a close-fitting metal helmet while his neck swelled up. Alma had ordered herself a ‘Lady of the Mysteries’ costume, which turned out to be a courtesan’s sheer and garishly
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