Sorry about this. I
knew I would not have the time yesterday, to write my blog and it looks like I
will not have any time today either, so;
here’s a short story I wrote some time ago. I hope it gives you a smile. Oh, and if you have read it before then read
it again, it will do you good, and yes, there will be questions. Normal service will resume tomorrow. Happy Christmas. Himself.
Par
For The Course
“Rupert!”
snapped Bunnie, who by now had opened every window
possible along
the balcony and was returning to the table where she had
left her coat,
handbag and dearest friend, Nellie, or Fenella if you hadn’t
been to prep
school together.
Rupert,
standing with his feet so close together that he could have
been a Royal
Naval Button boy, melted back into the real world. He
walked himself
over towards Bunnie, who spoke at him.
“Rupert
I want you to shoot down to that little flower shop in the
village and get
something to freshen up the air in here.”
Rupert
smiled, but it was one of those blank smiles. He needed a
little more.
“I’ll
go,” offered Fenella, knowing there was a good chance that
Rupert might
return with an aerosol.
“Yes,”
agreed Bunnie, “Take some money from the till.”
“How
much?”
“Fifty
should see to it.”
“Fine!”
Rupert
adopted the position; the Royal Navy didn’t know what it
was missing. But
Rupert did. He turned as Harper O Neill strode
through the
door. One arm pushed and held the door open while the
other, firmly
wrapped around a girl, hoisted her into the clubhouse. They
exchanged words,
smiled, laughed, then parted; she behind the shuttered
bar while Harper
straightened himself, then strolled across the room.
“Hello
Spud,” he beamed, while stretching himself and pushing his
arms out either
side, clawing at the air, like a bear in a tee shirt. He was
claiming his
patch, without rubbing himself against all the corners and
pissing on the
tree stumps. The alpha male of the East Middlesex golf
club, or so he
liked to think.
“Hello
Harper,” answered Rupert.
“Why
do you call him Spud?” asked Bunnie. “Why don’t you use
his proper
name?”
“Spud
is his proper name, isn’t it? Spud!”
“Yes,
but why?” Bunnie hated having to ask a question twice.
“Because
I caught him doing something disgusting with a potato
when we were at
Marlborough.”
Bunnie
blushed, so did Rupert. Fenella saved the day.
“Bunnie,”
she gasped, as she crept across the floor as if trying to
set a land speed
record for running while crouched.
“Whatever’s the matter?”
“There’s
no money in the till, well there is, but there’s only coins.
All the notes
have gone.”
“What
do you mean gone?”
“I
mean there’s none there. You know. Even that little pink purse
is missing.
Someone’s taken it all and…”
One
of the steel roller shutters, that protected the bar, rammed
upward, then
another and finally the third.
“Hunter
and Rupert will you please make sure that the tables and
chairs are laid
out correctly.”
“I’ll
get the flowers,” offered Fenella. “I’ll use my own money.”
“No,”
said Bunnie. “You stay with me. I’ll sort this money
situation out.”
“Why
don’t the both of you go for the flowers?” suggested Harper.
Had
he not sighed while talking, his suggestion may have been seen as
being more
diplomatic. “Let’s wait for the club sec to arrive and he can
sort out the old
finances?”
“Strike
while the iron’s hot Mister O Neill!”
“Yes,
that’s all very well, but it’s the club sec who’s supposed to
deal with
matter’s like this.”
“Indeed
Mister O Neill, but my husband, The Major, had the
honour to be
club captain here the first day these links opened and I’ve
served this
establishment ever since. I do know something about
procedure and
people and how to deal with them. Especially these sort.”
“But…”
Bunnie
held up her right hand. “I’ll have no more said on the
matter. Mister O
Neill will you go and ask the four members of staff to
report to me
please.”
Bunnie
shuffled herself well back into the seat; it was like the old
cinematic
gunfighter finding his spot in a corner, but less sawdust.
“Nellie
I want you to take notes, just in case we have to hand this
over to the
police.”
“The
police?”
“Well
yes. These people cannot be allowed to think they can steal
their way
through life.”
“Be
a dear and start on the tables please,” said Bunnie. Rupert
launched himself
into action, and then stopped, but Bunnie was already
five steps ahead
of him. “In a circle dear, in a circle.” Bunnie emphasised
her words by
drawing an imaginary circle in the air with the forefinger of
her right hand.
Rupert got the message and smiled.
“I
must tell you,” hissed Fenella. “I saw one of the girls putting
money in her
pocket.”
“Which
one?”
“Her
back pocket.”
“No Nellie. Which girl?”
“Oh!
I’m not really sure. I only saw her from behind, she was
bending over,
but she was wearing blue jeans and put the money in her
back pocket.”
With
that three of the girls came out from behind the bar and
walked over
towards Bunnie. Each of the girls had changed and was now
wearing a white
blouse and a black skirt, regulation staff uniform.
Bunnie would
have to wait and see if the fourth girl wore jeans. Bunnie
sighed as the
forth girl rolled through the bar door, because she wasn’t
wearing jeans,
she was wearing Harper. They were wrapped around each
other, giggling
and kissing and tickling.
“Mister
O Neill! Is your wife attending the function this evening?”
asked Bunnie, in
the same way that an archer loosed off an arrow at their
target.
“Who
knows,” answered Harper, with a shrug of his shoulders. He
released the
girl, as if she were a bowling ball, before strutting his way
over to Rupert.
“I’ll
get straight to the point,” began Bunnie, but someone moving
about outside
took her attention. She kept her sight fixed on the tiny gap
between the grounds
man’s garage and the ladies changing rooms. She
was sure she had
seen someone, and if she had, that is where he or she
would pop out.
”Right,” began Bunnie. “Some money is missing from
the bar till.”
Bunnie didn’t bother looking at the four members of staff,
which she
normally would have done to gauge their reactions, she was
convinced that
suspect number one was lurking somewhere outside. “Did
any of you take
the money?”
Bunnie
kept her gaze fixed on the spot outside which worried
Fenella. The
four staff whispered and nattered among themselves.
“It’s
quite simple really,” announced Bunnie. “One of you has
stolen some
money and I am going to unearth the culprit.” Bunnie
glanced at
Fenella to make sure she was taking notes.
“Stop
thief!!!” roared Bunnie, as she stood and pointed at the man
who had emerged
by the ladies changing room. “Harper! “ she shrieked,
while jabbing
her finger towards the man, as if she was willing the
hounds to a fox.
Harper
raced out the door and made his way to the front of the club
while the staff
and Fenella got as close to the windows as possible to see
him corner his
quarry.
”Well
done Bunnie,” shrieked Fenella, while clapping her hands
together like a
seal at the circus.
“You
girls get back to work,” barked Bunnie, triumphantly.
“Oh
Bunnie that was marvellous. How did you know he would be
there, and
Harper, oh, it’s all just too exciting!”
Bunnie
sat herself down again and smoothed out her skirt.
“We do have certain rules Nellie, here at the
East Middlesex. No
sports shoes, no
jeans and no tee shirts with slogans on.”
“Well
spotted Bunnie,” hailed Fenella. “I wouldn’t have thought to
look for those.”
“And
of course there’s the other obvious difference my dear.”
“What’s
that?” asked Fenella, who found that she couldn’t stop
staring at the
entrance door because she had seen figures pass by the
frosted glass
windows and knew that Harper would be entering any
second now with
his quarry.
“He’s
black!” stated Bunnie.
“Is
he?” asked Fenella, who was actually staring at the man, who
seemed to be
laughing and joking with Harper. “Oh yes. I see what you
mean.”
“Call
the police Nellie!” sighed Bunnie, as Harper and the man
drew near.
“Nine, nine, nine.”
They
stopped.
“Eh...”
began Harper, but Bunnie held up her hand as if she were
on traffic duty
at a busy crossroads.
“Tell
them we have apprehended a dangerous thief and would
appreciate some
assistance. If you mention my name we should get a
favourable
response.”
“But...” insisted Harper, who again found
himself cut short by
Bunnie, but this
time with a stare that superman would have been proud
of.
“Thank
you Mister O Neill. Please leave this to me. Now, my
man. Some money
has gone missing from the bar till and I want you to
return it to me
now.”
“Misses
Warren, this is Felix Forrest,” explained Harper, horribly
out of turn.
“I
don’t care who he is Mister O Neill, if he returns the money he
has stolen from
our bar till I shall of course ask the police to treat him
leniently.”
“On
their way,” called Fenella, as she walked back from the public
telephone booth.
“Felix
Forrest is with the PGA tour. He’s ranked number four in
the world and
has come to present the awards this evening,” announced
Harper, quite
factually.
“But
he’s not supposed to be here until tea-time and he’s not
supposed to be
…”
“Be
what?” asked Felix, who already knew the answer.
“You’re
early!” accused Bunnie.
“Mister
Forrest is an American and when he was told tea-time,
thought we meant
afternoon tea.” Harper seemed to be enjoying the
situation but
noticed that Felix was making his way towards the door. He
was also talking
on his mobile telephone and seemed to be losing some of
the coolness he
had maintained while being addressed by Bunnie.
“What’s
he doing now?” asked Bunnie.
“Probably
calling the police on you,” said Harper, with a smirk that
told Bunnie
exactly what he thought of her.
“Oh
look!” said Fenella, while pointing toward the flashing blue
lights that
could be seen through the tall manicured hedge that bordered
the golf club.
“Mister
Forrest!” called Bunnie, who could see that he was about
to step through
the door.
Forrest
stopped.
“You’re
not supposed to be here until after six o clock this
evening,” Bunnie
had emphasised ‘this evening’. Americans knew
nothing about
etiquette.
Neither
it seems did the members of the local constabulary who at
that moment
burst through the door of the clubhouse. Three burley, male,
police officers,
one holding his truncheon thingy, plus one female officer
with a large
slavering Alsatian which, the moment it saw Forrest, reacted
as if fifty
thousand volts was passing along its lead.
Forrest
froze to the spot.
“Is
this him?” asked one of the male officers, who, grabbed Forrest
by his right
wrist and in one flowing movement, had secured both of
Forrest’s wrists
behind him in a pair of handcuffs made from the finest
Sheffield steel.
Forrest’s mobile phone spun to the floor and was then
trampled by an
enormous black boot.
“Would
you mind taking that dog out of here!” snapped Bunnie,
who could see
that someone, in authority, would have to take over the
situation.
The
female officer seemed to ignore Bunnie but gradually reigned
in the dog, calmed
it down and coaxed it from the room. Rupert appeared
to be the only
person in the room who didn’t want the dog to leave.
“Who’s
the senior man?” boomed Bunnie, trying to be heard above
the dog, which
although now outside was still howling and snapping.
Bunnie hoped it
had seen a rabbit in the car park and had not taken a
fancy to another
club member.
“I
am madam,” admitted the officer who had handcuffed Forrest,
and who with a
nod of his head had the two other male officers position
themselves
behind Forrest and await instructions.
“Can
I have a word please officer?”
“It’s
Sergeant mam,”
“Very
good Sergeant, if you wouldn’t mind.” Bunnie indicated the
seat beside her.
“Take these off,” insisted Forrest, at which
Harper began to walk
over adding,
“Yes. It’s all a mistake. He…”
Harper
stopped dead in his tracks as the policeman with the
truncheon had
now raised it and was growling. “Stand back! Stand
back!”
Forrest
pulled himself away from the officers and turned to face
them.
“Take
these cuffs off me!” he yelled, while experiencing his first
ever, illegal,
rugby tackle.
“Steady
on,” called Harper, who went as close as he dared to the
ruck.
Bunnie
was standing, indicating to the Sergeant that he should
remain seated,
hoping that the noise levels would recede and praying that
she could begin
to organise things properly when Ginny Duffield, in a
lovely pink
woollen two-piece, came through the door, screaming.
Ginny’s husband
was the club treasurer. Her normally perfectly styled
hair was
tousled. The strap on her left shoe was loose and flapping about
and the nylon
above was in shreds. Ginny clasped a large handbag to her
chest. Two dark,
uneven, lines of mascara ran down each side of her face
indicating that
she had been crying
Ginny
stopped and turned to her left, screamed, stopped again, then
turned to her
right. Screamed, then stopped. Ginny, for no apparent
reason and with
a huge first step, almost clawing at the air with her left
foot as if she
was digging spuds, began to run again but ran straight into
the three men
wrestling on the floor and found herself skittering over
bodies while her
bag glided across the carpet ahead of her, like a curling
stone on course
for the house.
Bunnie
sat herself back down while the Sergeant stood.
“This
is all a terrible mistake,” announced Harper, making his way
towards the
Sergeant. “That man is no criminal, he’s actually Felix
Forrest, the
fourth best golfer in the world who has come here to present
some awards this
evening.”
“You
know I think he’s right Searg,” said the officer with the
truncheon, who
was holding Forrest off the floor by his shoulders so that
he could get a
good look at him.
Bunnie
thought that the situation had calmed sufficiently for her to
intervene. She
stood and was about to ask the police Sergeant to sit when
Ginny, who by
now had managed to stand, was stamping on the spot
screaming and
pointing at her handbag.
“Ginny!”
shouted Bunnie, who knew that this woman needed
snapping out of
whatever was affecting her.
Harper
moved over and held Ginny by her shoulders. He shook her
gently, then
brought her in to his chest and wrapped his arms around her.
Ginny sobbed and
was coughing and spluttering with all the emotion she
was
experiencing.
“What’s
the matter Ginny?” asked Harper, who from the way he
held and spoke
to her, suggested that this was not the first time they had
been this close.
“The
police…!” Sobbed Ginny, who tried to speak between the
gulps of air she
was taking. “After me...!” Ginny was pointing randomly
around the
clubhouse with much of what she said being unintelligible.
“And I’ve got
Charlie,” sobbed Ginny, who completely disintegrated as
the policeman
with the truncheon was now twisting her left arm behind
her back and
snapping on one end of a pair of cuffs.
“I’m
arresting you for the possession of a class A drug madam,”
said the
policeman, in such a matter of fact way that it’s meaning was
completely lost
on Ginny. “You do not have to say anything. But it may
harm your
defence if you do not ……….."
Ginny
began to sob so loudly that the policeman couldn’t be heard.
Harper didn’t
know whether to offer to help Ginny or Felix. Fenella
knew that she
had to get to Bunnie; she would know what to do. Bunnie
had always said
Ginny had too much money for an accountant’s wife.
And Rupert.
Rupert was enjoying the way the seagulls hovered then
seemed to bounce
off the roof of the garages.
“Aggh!”
screamed Fenella, “A rat!”
Most
people followed to where she was pointing. Surprisingly it
was Rupert who
sprang into action. A long handled plastic broom had
been left
propped against a chair. Rupert collected it and made his way to
the area Fenella
pointed at. Ginny’s bag moved and as Rupert raised the
broom as high as
he could it was Ginny who uttered a scream so terrible
that he halted
his swing and brought his attention to Ginny.
“It’s
Charlie. It’s Charlie!” she sobbed, before slumping against
the policeman
who had arrested her.
Staggering
out from the large Gucci bag was a tiny Chihuahua. Its
ears were down,
its tail was between its legs, it’s tiny little body shook. It
looked like a
half starved naked sailor on a Friday night.
“Oh
you poor little thing,” called Fenella, who immediately went
towards it.
Harper
had managed to get a chair under Ginny, who, even with
her delicate
white wrists secured by bracelets she would never dream of
buying, held her
hands out for her Charlie to be delivered to her.
Fenella brought
the dog over to her and stood and sighed as Ginny
held and hugged
Charlie.
Rupert
felt a bit daft standing there, in the middle of the clubhouse
with a blue
plastic broom over his head, so he lowered it. He would have
collected
Ginny’s bag for her but the policeman who had arrested her had
picked it up and
was scrimmaging about inside. The Sergeant had been
talking into the
electric broach on his shoulder, while the third policeman
seemed to be
quite comfortable as he rested on Felix with his right knee
firmly placed in
the centre of Felix’s back.
“I
take it Charlie is the dog’s name?” asked the Sergeant, to Ginny,
who seemed to be
settling down.
“Of
course it is you stupid man!” snapped Ginny, who didn’t really
seem to be that
interested in anything other than the dog.
“I
see the bitch is better,” whispered Bunnie, as Fenella drew up
alongside her.
“I
thought it was a boy dog?” replied Fenella.
“Who’s
talking about the dog,” sighed Bunnie, who nudged
Fenella and
indicated that she should turn and watch, as the policeman
emptied the
contents of Ginny’s bag onto a table. The usual collection of
keys, purse,
compact, perfume and tat scattered over the table but the one
item that stood
out was a tiny pink purse.
“Golly!”
said Rupert, stepping forward and trying to be helpful as
always. “The
money from the bar till.”
Rupert
held the tiny pink purse up as if he were posing for the
press.
“I
demand that you release me,” said Felix, who had been waiting
for his
opportunity. The policeman came off Felix’s back and lifted him
to his feet.
Felix moved what was left of his mobile phone around with
his right toe.
It could have been a deceased hedgehog at the side of a busy road; all that was
missing were the flies.
“Give
him a seat Jones,” said the Sergeant, to which the policeman
responded by
guiding Felix into the nearest chair.
It
was then that Bunnie noticed the four staff members, all behind
the bar and all
sniggering at the commotion that had unfolded before
them.
“Why
have you got this purse?” asked the Sergeant, who had
opened the
purse, removed the money and was counting it.
“My
husband is the club treasurer. He was warned that fake notes
were in
circulation and he asked me to collect the money from the till this
morning, take
them to him at his place of work, where he could check
them and then
return the float to the till before the bar opened.”
“So
there has been no robbery?”
Apart
from the police most people were staring at the floor, except
for Rupert who
was watching the seagulls again.
“And
Mister Forrest?”
“A
misunderstanding Sergeant,” stated Bunnie, who was glad that
the female
police officer had come back into the clubhouse, minus friend.
“We’ve
got a priority shout Searg,” she said, indicating her radio.
“De-arrest
these two,” ordered the Sergeant, at which the two
other policemen
launched into some verbal tirade like magicians with
their
hocus-pocus. “And please madam,” said the Sergeant, leaning in to
Bunnie, perhaps
so that he didn’t have to raise his voice or perhaps to
emphasise his
words, or maybe both. “If you need our services in the
future please
make sure of your facts before you call us.”
They
left. Their sirens diminished as the silence in the clubhouse
grew, that is
until the door slammed.
“I
say,” hissed Bunnie, who was secretly pleased that Mister
Forrest had left
the building.
“I
need a drink,” called Ginny, towards the staff, one of whom
responded by
jabbing a glass under the optic that held the gin bottle.
“I
think you should go home and have a rest,” suggested Bunnie.
“You’ve
been through a lot my dear and it’s a bit early to be getting
squiffy.”
“I’ll
just have this and go,” explained Ginny, who had made her
way to the bar.
“Yes
but we don’t allow dogs in the clubhouse my dear”
Ginny,
while collecting her things wondered if Bunnie was
insulting her or
simply quoting the club rulebook. She smiled at the
members of staff
who she gave the little pink purse to before regaining
her composure
and making her exit.
“Nellie,
I need you to get on the phone,”
“Why,
what’s up?”
“We
need to get a replacement chappie for this evening to present
the prizes.”
“You
don’t think anyone’s going to come here after the way you
treated Felix?”
asked Harper, who found Rupert agreeing with him.
“Felix
Forrest’s phone is broken Mister O Neill. If we can get hold
of these PGA
people before he gets back to their headquarters we might
be able to have
a replacement sent before Felix tells his side of the story.”
“I
see,” said Harper, impressed with Bunnie’s conniving.
“But
what happens if we get another. You know?” asked Fenella.
“Good
point,” said Bunnie, to the proverbial spanner that was still,
in her opinion
in mid-air, but most definitely heading for the works.
“I
know,” said Rupert, who raced over to a side table where there
was collection
of magazines where he rummaged.
“Here!”
he announced, coming back towards the group. “An
article about
this year’s PGA tour. It’s got a list of all the players; it’s
even got their
pictures and a bit about them.”
Bunnie
inspected the magazine.
“Well
done Rupert. We must see about getting you on the
committee.”
Nellie
took the magazine and went off to the telephone. Things
were looking up.
“Now gentlemen,” said Bunnie, happy that her
ship was once again
on course; all
she needed now was a bit of wind. “Let’s get these tables
organised.”
Harper
and Rupert finished off arranging the tables. The four staff
furnished them,
arranged the chairs and even managed to pretend that
nothing out of
the ordinary had happened. Fenella returned, beaming a
huge smile.
“And?”
asked Bunnie.
”No
problem,” squealed Fenella. “ I explained that there was some
mix up and we
needed a replacement. So they’re sending us Martin
Maguire.”
“Who?”
“Martin
Maguire. I believe he’s number seven in the ratings.
Everybody else
above him is busy.”
Fenella
pointed at his photograph and Bunnie smiled. There would
be no mistakes
this time. No spanner hurtling towards her perfect works.
Fenella handed
over the magazine to Bunnie.
“I’ll
shoot off now and get those flowers Bunnie.”
“Fine.
You do that, Nellie old girl,” answered Bunnie, who had
found her
reading glasses and was focusing on the blurb beside the
photograph of
Mister Maguire.
Fenella
put on her jacket, collected her handbag and was about to
ask if there was
anything else she could do, when she noticed that Bunnie
seemed to be in
a state of shock.
“Oh
dear. Bunnie, what’s wrong? He’s not black.”
“No
Nellie, he isn’t.” Bunnie placed down the magazine on the
table and
pointed to a line of print. “It’s much worse than that. He’s
Irish.”
The poster that
used to be displayed in many English boarding houses
that stated, No Blacks,
No Dogs, No Irish, prompted this story.
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