A Decent Ride (43 page)

Ah stert tae say something back aboot him huvin a good hert, even though it’s an ill hert, whin Terry goes, — Listen, mate, ah’m gaunny dae something for you. You need a wee brek, tae git away for a bit.

— Aye, but ah’ve goat tae wait fir the trams . . . fir Jinty . . .

— The trams’ll be ages yet, n Jinty . . . well . . . ye huv tae move on, mate.

N ah’m thinkin aboot this n how ah dinnae like Karen comin through in the night tae ays. — Aye, ah could dae wi a brek.

— Ma mate Simon in London is gaunny pit ye up. You’ll meet some nice lassies; some ay the lassies ah showed ye in they scud flicks.

They lassies wir awfay durty wi Terry n other laddies, but seemed nice, n they wirnae owerfat like oor Karen. — Aye? That wid be double barry! Aye sur, aye sur, aye sur . . .

— Ah’ve got ye a ticket doon thaire, Terry goes. — Ah ken ye need tae get away, mate, n eh hands ays a ticket fir a train. For London!

— Ah’ve nivir been tae London, ah goes. — Ah’ve been oan a train but. Tae Aberdeen n tae Glesgay.

— Well, you’ll be screen-tested, mate. Tae git intae they vids ah showed ye, the yins wi me n they barry lassies? Before ma hert? Mind ma space yins,
Invasion Uranus
n the sequel,
Assault on Uranus
? Ah wis the space pirate whae stumbled on the colony ay lesbo scientists at thair research station on Uranus?

— Aye, ah do that, aye sur, that ah do . . . that wis barry, Terry! Ye think ah could be a durty fullum star like you?

— Well, if ye satisfy thaim, you’ll be in . . . shoatie, Terry goes, as Ronnie comes back. Eh’s shakin hands wi the boys, n they go n git intae another car.

— Awright? Terry looks at Ronnie, as eh climbs intae the cab.

— Local democracy in action, the Ronnie boy smiles. — It sure is a beautiful thing! Now let’s get to Muirfield and fuck those Swedes!

— Turned oot a rerr day, ah goes.

The Ronnie boy grins at ays. — You know, Jonty, sometimes with the way you look at me, I dunno if you’re the dumbest asshole on this planet, or if you think I am!

— Mibbe it’s baith but, Ronnie . . .

— Maybe it’s both! This guy! Ronnie laughs.

Terry turns round n sais, — Ye shouldnae be talkin tae him like that.

— Easy, Terry! He knows I’m just bustin his balls!

— Aye, right . . .

— Are you okay? You seem uptight. You gotta relax for golf, Terry, it’s a Zen art –

— Ah ken that, n ah’ll be awright when we get there.

— Well, keep calm. Remember, I’m the one that’s got it all to lose. Bottle number three of the Trinity!

Ah goes, — Is it a guid coorse, this yin wir gaun tae?

— Is it good? Ronnie goes, ehs eyes aw bulgin oot. — It’s Muirfield! This is the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers, one of the world’s great clubs, founded in Leith back in 1744 . . .

— Aye . . . guid coorse . . .

— . . . and it’s hosted the British Open Championship, one of the world’s great tournaments, fifteen times.

— Wid ah huv seen that coorse oan the telly, wid ah, Ronnie? Terry?

— Yes, of course.

— Aye, it’s been oan the telly tons ay times, mate, Terry goes. — Tiger Woods n that. The black boy. But sort ay Chinky n aw.

— Aye, aye, aye, the Chinky boy, ah mind ay the Chinky boy . . . ah goes, n Terry n Ronnie ur talkin aboot gowf n whisky n Danish boys. Ah’m kiddin oan ah’m readin ma paper at first, but then ah sortay really am. It’s goat that lassie oot ay the Spice Girls, whae’s sayin thit she nivir found true happiness wi a felly. Ah’d mairry her n treat her good n gie her barry boaby rides every night, cause she looks nice n kind. But mibbe it’s an auld picture. Aye sur, mibbe it is. N the lassies that Terry makes the fullums wi are probably jist as kind as any Spice lassie n they love dirty boaby rides n aw! Aye, ye kin tell! Aye sur, ye kin that!

— Yir lookin excited, pal, Terry goes.

— Kin ah hire clubs thaire, Terry?

Terry looks a wee bit sad. — Naw, mate, ye cannae play this time cause it’s aw arranged in advance wi Ronnie n the Danish boys.

— Aw.

— You kin caddy for ays but, mate, ye think ye could dae that?

— Aye sur, caddy, ah could, aye aye aye . . .

— But yi’ll need tae stey quiet but, cause it’s an awfay important game. We widnae just huv anybody caddy at such an important game, mate.

— Aye sur, awfay important, ah goes, — n ah’ll try tae keep quiet, aye ah will.

— Sound.

Wi gits tae the gowf coorse, n it’s the maist pan-loafy gowf coorse ah’ve ever seen! Aye, suren it is! Aw big cars in the car park n snobby boys in blazers that check ye before lettin ye in! N thaire’s a bar in thaire n it’s even better thin the hospitality at Tynecastle! Ah dinnae even ken if Ryan Stevenson wid git in here, wi aw they neck tattoos. Lucky we’re wi Ronnie, so wi gits in awright, aye wi dae! Cause the bar’s awfay posh, n wi panelled wid but awfay auld panelled wid thit wid taste aw auld, no like the fresh panelled wid at Tyney. Thaire’s paintins ay auld golf boys oan the waws, the biggest ower the marble fireplace ay a boy in a daft wig n a rid coat. — How could they play good in a daft rid coat n wig, Terry? ah goes.

— They jist could, pal, Terry sais.

Thaire’s nae time for a drink at the pan-loafy bar, cause thaire’s two Danish boys, baith ay whae Terry n Ronnie seem tae ken. N a wee guy in a jaykit. So wir aw right doon tae the coorse, oot oan that first tee at the gowf! Aye, so it’s Terry n Ronnie, me caddyin, n wir up against they Danish boys that nivir talk much. Ah goes, — Youse’ve goat bacon at your bit, cause ye see it oan the telly, aye sur, ye do, Danish bacon, ye see it oan the telly ower here, but the boys dinnae say nowt cause mibbe they cannae understand the Queen’s English like the Germans kin. So wir at the first hole n Terry drives off, straight doon the fairway. A par-five hole. Aye. Par five. The second shot isnae sae good but. — Coo’s-ersed it, Ronnie, Terry shouts.

Terry’s third shot bounces oantae the green but the Lars boy gits thaire in three tae. — Aye . . . yuv goat thum now, Terry, ah goes, giein encouragemint, aye sur, encouragemint.

Terry pits a finger tae ehs mooth n goes, — Shh, mate.

Ah tries tae cause ye dinnae want tae pit people oaf, even if it’s jist a boatil ay whisky thir playin fir. Terry said it wis special whisky, but. Other Dane Jens goes for a big batter, but his drive goes aw tae one side n lands in the bunker! Eh gits sort ay trapped under the lip and takes five shots to get oot! Ah’m gaun, — Aye, trapped under the lip.

See, at the next few holes but, that Jens boy is tons better. — That Jens is a fuckin machine, Terry says to Ronnie.

— I know, there oughtta have been more of a handicap on that goddamn Swede!

— He’s a Dane, Ronnie, Terry goes.

— Same goddamn thing, Ronnie says, but ah ken it’s no, cause he widnae like it if ye sais thit Americans n Mexicans are the same, cause thir different, like the fullums in Fullum Station Fower tell us. — Goddamn Viking pillaging bloodthirsty rapists who turn into stone-cold assassins with their socialised everything, and then have the gall to tell us
we’re
the warmongering assholes!

Terry’s no listenin but, eh’s concentratin oan the gowf n eh squints ehs eyes tae see the flag. It’s the number eight hole. — That’s the beauty ay golf, Jonty, he sais, — it’s a swedge against nature, and a swedge against yirsel. A gowf coorse can be the lassie thit’s been snoggin ye n rubbin up against ye aw night, whae then suddenly turns round and slaps yir puss for nowt.

Ah’m tryin tae think aboot aw the things that Terry sais, but Ronnie sort ay butts in. — Terry, all those observations are very interesting, but please concentrate, eh goes n looks across at that Lars, — this is serious business.

— Ah dinnae ken aboot aw this business stuff, Ronnie, that’s your gig, Terry goes, — I’m jist here tae drive n play a bit ay gowf.

— Dammit, Terry, Ronnie goes, lookin ower at the Dane fellys, — you know how fucking high the stakes are!

Terry jist grins n fixes ehs basebaw cap tae keep the sun oot ay his eyes. Aye, it keeps it fae gaun intae thum. — The key is tae stey relaxed, right, wee man, eh winks at ays.

— Aye sur, relaxed, aye, aye aye . . . n Ronnie’s face is rid but Terry lines up this putt, crouchin doon and stickin oot the club like they dae oan the telly. Then eh gits up n rolls it right intae the hole!

— Goddamn putt! Woo-hoo! Ronnie clenches his fist n lits a loat ay air oot. — That’s us level!

Terry nods over at Lars and Jens, as we walk doon tae the ninth tee. — Been readin a lot aboot philosophy n the art ay competition, Ronnie, Terry sais. — Books educate ye.

Ronnie sortay nods n takes a big club fae the bag ah huds up for um. — Have you read my books,
Success: Do Business the Checker Way
or
Leadership: Seize the Moment With Ron Checker
?

— Naw, mate, Terry sais as Jens comes up tae the tee and belts the baw doon the fairway, — ah’m readin proper literature. Ever read that
Moby-Dick
?

— Yes . . . but not since college, Ronnie goes. — These books don’t really help you in life, Terry. Now, take
Success
, that was on the
New York Times
best-seller list for –

— Wait the now, Ronnie, Terry sortay cuts in. —
Moby-Dick
wis aboot this cunt chasin a whale, right? Ah see masel as that boy, only instead ay bein obsessed wi the whale, wi me it’s fanny, n the taxi’s like ma boat. So instead ay Captain Ahab, ye kin call me Captain Acab.

— I don’t follow.

— Scottish humour, Ronnie. Goat tae be in wi the in-crowd tae appreciate it, ay, Jonts?

— Aye . . . aye . . . Scottish, ah goes, — aye, guid Scottish tongue . . . But ah dinnae ken what eh’s talkin aboot either. Ronnie sais nowt, n jist tears oaf.

See, if ah wisnae caddyin, ah wid be watchin this game anyway cause it’s double barry. Terry n Ronnie go ahead. Then it’s like a draw but wi the gowf wurd for a draw. Then the Danish boys go ahead. Then it’s back tae bein a draw again.

My legs are gittin awfay sair, aye they are that, but wi gits tae the last hole n it’s like a draw. Everybody’s aw tense. N ah sais, — See, if we go tae London, Terry, will we meet they lassies?

— Aye. Well, you will, mate. It’s aw aboot the hole.

N Terry drives oaf, right doon the fairway. Ronnie’s shot’s even better! And ehs next shot! The Danish boys cannae keep up! Ah’m aw excited as they aw drive oantae the green. Ah cannae even look, ah turns away when they goes tae putt. Aye sur, ah turns away n pits ma fingers in ma ears n ah’m lookin up at the big woods, but thinkin aboot Jinty, ma perr wee Jinty in that pillar, muh ma explodin, perr Alec, Terry’s real faither, n ehs maggoty boaby, n Maurice wi ehs big eyes in they glesses . . . thir aw deid, aw gone, thi’ll aw be waitin on me above they trees, in that blue sky. N ah hears a funny ghost voice in the distance . . .

— JONTY!

Then ah turns tae see Terry’s mooth open. Ah takes ma fingers oot ma ears, n eh’s shoutin ays ower!

Ah goes ower. Ronnie’s shakin. Terry’s yin’s the only baw left oan the green n it’s aboot six fit fae the hole. Aye sur, six fit. Ronnie’s shakin, ehs hands oan ehs club. The Danish boys are aw white-faced but sayin nowt. Terry looks intae ma eyes. — What dae you think Ian Black said tae Craig Thomson eftir the game?

Ah thinks aboot this yin. Ah ken thit the real answer wid be ‘thanks fir helpin us beat they durty Hobos’ but ah cannae say that cause ay Terry bein yin. It widnae help um wi the putt. So ah whispers, — Wir aw Jock Tamson’s bairns.

— Thanks, ma wee pal, Terry goes, n ehs eyes ur aw misty.

— Terry, what in hell’s name are you doing? Ronnie shouts. — It’s this goddamn putt for the game! The Bowcullen, goddammit!

— Ah’m aw nervous but, Ronnie, Terry goes.

— Take deep breaths, you can do this!

Terry looks at Ronnie, then Jens and Lars, and eh bursts oot laughin. — Aw nervous that they poor boys are gaunny commit suicide when ah pits this yin away!

N eh goes ower, aw casual, n no nervous at aw, n takes the last putt . . . It seems tae be gaun too fast; then it hits a wee bit ay slope n slows doon . . . it’s gaun taewards the hole but it birls roond the mooth . . . then . . .

IT FAWS! AYE SUR, IT FAWS RIGHT INTAE THE HOLE! AYE SUR, IT DOES! AYE AYE AYE AYE AYE! Ronnie lits oot a roar n grabs a hud ay me! — YESSSSS!!!!! We’ve done it! WE’VE WON THE WHISKY! Ronnie’s eyes ur bulgin oot n Terry comes ower aw casual, n the three ay us ur in a big embrace. — THANK YOU, GOD! Ronnie shouts at the sky. — GOD IS AN AMERICAN! he shouts ower at the perr Danish boys, whae look awfay soor-faced, aye sur, awfay soor-faced.

— Mibbe it means eh’s a Scotsman, Ronnie, cause ay Terry sinking the putt, ah goes.

— Maybe it damn well does, Jonty! Hell yeah!

We pill apart n Ronnie goes tae Terry, — What the hell was going through your mind when you took that shot?

— Aw ah thoat ay was aboot every burd that ah’ve looked at since this hert news, and ah jist focused on the hole. Aw thit wis gaun through ma mind: you’re fuckin gittin it! It’s like the scud, they ey sent me in tae dae the difficult shots, like the triple penetration cause ah nivir loast ma boatil. Lisette’s lying under Curtis, whae’s right up her, n Bum Bandit Jonno’s in her erse. Thaire’s aw they bodies in the wey, n the camera, n nae gap tae push it intae. So they send fir Juice T. Ah git it right in thaire, every time, ey thoat ay masel as the George Clooney ay scud. Gowf’s the same; ye go for the hole n nowt gits in yir fuckin road!

Ronnie laughs n ah does tae n we’re aw cheery. — You know, Terry, you drive that ball the same goddamn way every single time. That swing looks a little awkward, you look like you’re taking a shit, but it’s a thing of flawed beauty. It can’t be taught. You really do make love to that course; you pound, pump, caress and leave.

— Aye, aye, aye . . . ah goes, but ah kin see Lars isnae happy, n him n ehs mate go away, as the other boy hands Ronnie the boatil!

We gits back in the cab n wir drinkin champagne! Ah thoat we’d be drinkin oot ay the whisky in the funny boatil but Terry goes, naw, this is better, even in a paper cup!