painted toga. Her hasty addition of a purple turtleneck and cycling shorts had done little to improve the overall effect.
The theme, combined with an open bar until midnight, had resulted in a ridiculous loosening of standards. The usual expected and required banter, the flirtatious compliments, and the occasional pinching of bottoms had been magnified into open debaucheries. Old Mr. Percy became so drunk that he threw away his cane and subsequently fell into a glass door while chasing a shrieking woman across the terrace. Hugh Whetstone and his wife had a loud row at the bar and left with different people. Even Father Christopher, in leather sandals and a hemp robe, imbibed a little too much, so that he sat mute in a chair looking for significance in a long vertical crack in the wall and Daisy had to half-drag him to the taxi at the end of the night. The Sunday sermon that weekend had been a call to more ascetic living, delivered in a hoarse whisper. The entire event was wholly unworthy of a golf club of pedigree and the Major had considered writing a letter of protest. He had composed several serious but witty versions in his mind.
“If only this year we could just go back to having an elegant dance,” he said. “I’m tired of wearing my dinner suit and having people ask me what I’m supposed to be.”
“There’s a meeting this morning to settle the issue,” said Alec. “When we get in, you could pop your head round the door and suggest it.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the Major, horrified. “Perhaps you could have a quiet word with Alma?” Alec merely snorted, took a ball out of his pocket, and dropped it over his shoulder onto the edge of the green.
“One-stroke penalty gives you four over par?” added the Major, writing in the tiny leather scorebook he kept in the breast pocket of his golfing jacket. He was a comfortable five strokes ahead at this point.
“Let’s say the winner talks to my wife,” said Alec, and grinned. The Major was stricken. He put away his notebook and lined up his shot. He hit it a little fast and too low, but the ball, skipping on a budding dandelion, made a dive into the hole anyway. “Oh, good shot,” said Alec.
∗
On the sixteenth hole, a barren area backed by a gravel pit of steel-grey water, Alec asked him how he was feeling.
“Life goes on, you know,” he said to Alec’s back. Alec concentrated on his swing. “I have good days and bad.” Alec hit a hard drive very straight and almost to the green.
“I’m glad to hear you’re doing better,” said Alec. “Nasty business, funerals.”
“Thank you,” said the Major, stepping up to set his own ball on the tee. “And how are you?”
“The daughter’s baby, baby Angelica, is doing much better. They saved the leg.” There was a pause as the Major lined up his own shot and hit a slightly crooked drive, short and to the edge of the fairway.
“Nasty business, hospitals,” said the Major.
“Yes, thank you,” said Alec. They retrieved their bags and set off down the grassy incline.
Arriving at the clubhouse from the eighteenth hole, the Major saw that the big clock above the terrace portico stood at 11:45. Alec made a show of checking the clock against his watch.
“Ah, timed it just right for a drink and a spot of lunch,” he said, as he did every week regardless of when they finished their round. They had been at the bar as early as eleven one time. The Major was not anxious to repeat the experience. Lunch not being served before noon, they had each had several drinks and these, combined with a glass of wine to accompany the quenelles of chicken in cream sauce, had made him extremely dyspeptic.
They deposited their carts under the convenient lean-to at the side of the building and headed across the terrace toward the grill bar. As they passed the solarium, which used to be the ladies’ bar before the club had opened the grill to women, a hand rapped on the glass and a shrill voice called
The theme, combined with an open bar until midnight, had resulted in a ridiculous loosening of standards. The usual expected and required banter, the flirtatious compliments, and the occasional pinching of bottoms had been magnified into open debaucheries. Old Mr. Percy became so drunk that he threw away his cane and subsequently fell into a glass door while chasing a shrieking woman across the terrace. Hugh Whetstone and his wife had a loud row at the bar and left with different people. Even Father Christopher, in leather sandals and a hemp robe, imbibed a little too much, so that he sat mute in a chair looking for significance in a long vertical crack in the wall and Daisy had to half-drag him to the taxi at the end of the night. The Sunday sermon that weekend had been a call to more ascetic living, delivered in a hoarse whisper. The entire event was wholly unworthy of a golf club of pedigree and the Major had considered writing a letter of protest. He had composed several serious but witty versions in his mind.
“If only this year we could just go back to having an elegant dance,” he said. “I’m tired of wearing my dinner suit and having people ask me what I’m supposed to be.”
“There’s a meeting this morning to settle the issue,” said Alec. “When we get in, you could pop your head round the door and suggest it.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the Major, horrified. “Perhaps you could have a quiet word with Alma?” Alec merely snorted, took a ball out of his pocket, and dropped it over his shoulder onto the edge of the green.
“One-stroke penalty gives you four over par?” added the Major, writing in the tiny leather scorebook he kept in the breast pocket of his golfing jacket. He was a comfortable five strokes ahead at this point.
“Let’s say the winner talks to my wife,” said Alec, and grinned. The Major was stricken. He put away his notebook and lined up his shot. He hit it a little fast and too low, but the ball, skipping on a budding dandelion, made a dive into the hole anyway. “Oh, good shot,” said Alec.
∗
On the sixteenth hole, a barren area backed by a gravel pit of steel-grey water, Alec asked him how he was feeling.
“Life goes on, you know,” he said to Alec’s back. Alec concentrated on his swing. “I have good days and bad.” Alec hit a hard drive very straight and almost to the green.
“I’m glad to hear you’re doing better,” said Alec. “Nasty business, funerals.”
“Thank you,” said the Major, stepping up to set his own ball on the tee. “And how are you?”
“The daughter’s baby, baby Angelica, is doing much better. They saved the leg.” There was a pause as the Major lined up his own shot and hit a slightly crooked drive, short and to the edge of the fairway.
“Nasty business, hospitals,” said the Major.
“Yes, thank you,” said Alec. They retrieved their bags and set off down the grassy incline.
Arriving at the clubhouse from the eighteenth hole, the Major saw that the big clock above the terrace portico stood at 11:45. Alec made a show of checking the clock against his watch.
“Ah, timed it just right for a drink and a spot of lunch,” he said, as he did every week regardless of when they finished their round. They had been at the bar as early as eleven one time. The Major was not anxious to repeat the experience. Lunch not being served before noon, they had each had several drinks and these, combined with a glass of wine to accompany the quenelles of chicken in cream sauce, had made him extremely dyspeptic.
They deposited their carts under the convenient lean-to at the side of the building and headed across the terrace toward the grill bar. As they passed the solarium, which used to be the ladies’ bar before the club had opened the grill to women, a hand rapped on the glass and a shrill voice called
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