up and looks at it as if it had just called him a prick, pardon my French, son. Then he stamps his divot back in and, just as he goes tae walk off, your father leans over the rope and says tae him, sympathetically like, “It happens to the best of us, Mr Palmer.”’
‘What did he say?’
‘Palmer looks up at yer dad, looks him right in the eye, and he says, “Fuck off.”’
They both took this in for a moment, Bert shaking his head in silent wonder. ‘ Arnold Palmer. Telling your dad tae fuck off. It was one of the proudest moments of yer faither’s life.’
Bert took another swallow of whisky, the sun glinting off the silver flask. ‘The point is, anybody can get the shanks. It’s all up here. This–’ again he tapped Gary’s forehead–‘is the most important muscle in golf. Ah mean, you don’t have what anybody would call a beautiful golf swing,’ (this was the understatement of the millennium) ‘but that doesn’t matter. Look at the American fella, Drew…’
‘Keel.’
‘Drew Keel. Look at his swing. Steep? The boy looks like he’s trying to chop one of his own feet aff wi’ an axe. But he’s winning tournaments. He’s making the money. It doesn’t matter how ugly it is if you can do it the same way every time.’
‘Aye, ah know all that, Bert, ah just–’
‘Look, tell ye what, the course is quiet now. Come on andwe’ll go over tae the second fairway wi’ a bag of balls and we’ll see if we can crack this shanking carry-on.’
‘Really? Thanks, Bert. I know I’m a hopeless case but–’
‘Och, wheesht. God loves a trier, son. Get your clubs.’
Bert watched Gary walk back towards the locker room, then he turned at the sound of a car door slamming to his left. Billy Douglas was hurrying round to his boot. ‘Afternoon, Billy,’ Bert said. ‘Running a bit late, are ye?’
‘Aye, Bert,’ Billy said. ‘Ma sixtieth last night. Cannae take the drink like ah used tae.’
‘Ah know whit ye mean, pal. Have a good game.’
‘Aye, cheers, Bert. Ah’ll see ye later.’
Bert leaned back on the bench and looked down over the golf course–players splayed and crucified, clubs dangling in one hand, necks craning after doomed balls. The finishing positions of the amateurs–physical apologies for the outrages they were performing in the name of golf.
Lee’s mobile rang. Sammy. Again. Lee jabbed the button and uttered a brusque ‘Ho?’, trying for a tone of voice that suggested he was a very busy man. He was, in fact, rolling a joint and watching the Shopping Channel.
‘They’ve cancelled,’ Sammy said.
‘Whit?’
‘Alan and wee Flakey. Said they couldnae wait any longer.’
‘Hey, you tell those pricks a deal’s a fucking d—’
‘Fuck sake, Lee! Ah telt ye the other week! They’re no gonnae sit ab—’
‘AH’LL FUCKING GO UP THERE AND CUT THEIR FUCKING THROATS!’
As he often did when he was completely in the wrong, Lee went for the attack-as-defence approach. Sammy let him shoutand scream. ‘Aye, Lee, fair enough. You go and dae aw that. It disnae change anything. They’ve got sorted fae somebody else.’
‘Whit the fuck am ah meant tae dae with a fucking key o’ billy?’
‘Fuck knows. Ah’ll speak tae ye later.’
‘Hey, don’t you hang up oan me, ya pr—’
Click.
‘DON’T FUCKING HANG UP OAN ME YA FUCKING PRIIIIIIIICK!’ Lee screamed into the empty phone, in the empty house. Then he hurled the mobile into the wall and watched it smash into several pieces.
Gary whistled appreciatively as Bert’s ball soared high and dropped softly onto the back of the green–about ten yards past the pin.
‘Naw,’ Bert said, ‘caught it a bit thin.’
They were stood in the light rough along the left-hand side of the second fairway, about 150 yards away from the green; a good green to practise approach shots to–big and welcoming and slightly downhill from them. There was a carrier bag full of old golf balls at their feet: fifty for a
‘What did he say?’
‘Palmer looks up at yer dad, looks him right in the eye, and he says, “Fuck off.”’
They both took this in for a moment, Bert shaking his head in silent wonder. ‘ Arnold Palmer. Telling your dad tae fuck off. It was one of the proudest moments of yer faither’s life.’
Bert took another swallow of whisky, the sun glinting off the silver flask. ‘The point is, anybody can get the shanks. It’s all up here. This–’ again he tapped Gary’s forehead–‘is the most important muscle in golf. Ah mean, you don’t have what anybody would call a beautiful golf swing,’ (this was the understatement of the millennium) ‘but that doesn’t matter. Look at the American fella, Drew…’
‘Keel.’
‘Drew Keel. Look at his swing. Steep? The boy looks like he’s trying to chop one of his own feet aff wi’ an axe. But he’s winning tournaments. He’s making the money. It doesn’t matter how ugly it is if you can do it the same way every time.’
‘Aye, ah know all that, Bert, ah just–’
‘Look, tell ye what, the course is quiet now. Come on andwe’ll go over tae the second fairway wi’ a bag of balls and we’ll see if we can crack this shanking carry-on.’
‘Really? Thanks, Bert. I know I’m a hopeless case but–’
‘Och, wheesht. God loves a trier, son. Get your clubs.’
Bert watched Gary walk back towards the locker room, then he turned at the sound of a car door slamming to his left. Billy Douglas was hurrying round to his boot. ‘Afternoon, Billy,’ Bert said. ‘Running a bit late, are ye?’
‘Aye, Bert,’ Billy said. ‘Ma sixtieth last night. Cannae take the drink like ah used tae.’
‘Ah know whit ye mean, pal. Have a good game.’
‘Aye, cheers, Bert. Ah’ll see ye later.’
Bert leaned back on the bench and looked down over the golf course–players splayed and crucified, clubs dangling in one hand, necks craning after doomed balls. The finishing positions of the amateurs–physical apologies for the outrages they were performing in the name of golf.
Lee’s mobile rang. Sammy. Again. Lee jabbed the button and uttered a brusque ‘Ho?’, trying for a tone of voice that suggested he was a very busy man. He was, in fact, rolling a joint and watching the Shopping Channel.
‘They’ve cancelled,’ Sammy said.
‘Whit?’
‘Alan and wee Flakey. Said they couldnae wait any longer.’
‘Hey, you tell those pricks a deal’s a fucking d—’
‘Fuck sake, Lee! Ah telt ye the other week! They’re no gonnae sit ab—’
‘AH’LL FUCKING GO UP THERE AND CUT THEIR FUCKING THROATS!’
As he often did when he was completely in the wrong, Lee went for the attack-as-defence approach. Sammy let him shoutand scream. ‘Aye, Lee, fair enough. You go and dae aw that. It disnae change anything. They’ve got sorted fae somebody else.’
‘Whit the fuck am ah meant tae dae with a fucking key o’ billy?’
‘Fuck knows. Ah’ll speak tae ye later.’
‘Hey, don’t you hang up oan me, ya pr—’
Click.
‘DON’T FUCKING HANG UP OAN ME YA FUCKING PRIIIIIIIICK!’ Lee screamed into the empty phone, in the empty house. Then he hurled the mobile into the wall and watched it smash into several pieces.
Gary whistled appreciatively as Bert’s ball soared high and dropped softly onto the back of the green–about ten yards past the pin.
‘Naw,’ Bert said, ‘caught it a bit thin.’
They were stood in the light rough along the left-hand side of the second fairway, about 150 yards away from the green; a good green to practise approach shots to–big and welcoming and slightly downhill from them. There was a carrier bag full of old golf balls at their feet: fifty for a
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