Captain's Day (10 page)

His neck was no better. It never would be. It was absolutely shot. Completely riddled with arthritis. By now he couldn't turn his head more than twenty degrees to the right, and he didn't like to turn it even that far as the last time he’d done so it had triggered off the sudden bangs in his head again.

His frozen shoulder was a bit better but that was a sure sign it was going to get worse if the last time it had started to feel a bit better was anything to go by.

His chest pains, caused by his hiatus hernia, were thankfully no worse, but they were bad enough. The same couldn't be said for his back, which was a
lot
worse. Since the last time he’d played with Galloway he'd had another X-ray and the doctor had told him they couldn't find anything wrong with him and had shown him the X-ray, which confirmed the doctor’s diagnosis, but it must have been somebody else's X-ray, there must have been a mix-up or something, it stood to reason, otherwise why was his back still killing him?

His anal pain was a pain in the arse, if Galloway would pardon the expression; worse than it had ever been and getting worse by the minute. He had tried just about everything, you name it he'd tried it. Conventional medicine, acupuncture, homeopathy, hypnotherapy, aromatherapy, even therapy without a prefix, all to no avail. It felt just like somebody was shoving a cricket stump up his behind. It was only the blunt end of a cricket stump as yet, but he was sure it was only a matter of time before it developed into the pointed end, along with a couple of bails for good measure. He had even tried, in absolute desperation, going to a faith healer, a travelling evangelist. At the meeting the faith healer had laid hands on a man's lips and apparently cured his long-standing speech impediment, then he’d laid hands on a woman's gammy leg with the same result, but he had done nothing at all for Hanson's bottom when he had laid hands on it. However Hanson had noted that the faith healer hadn't spent anything like so much time with his hands on his bottom as he had on the other two's lips and leg, which no doubt had something to do with it. He would have demanded his money back but it was free, so he had contented himself with putting nothing in the collection box and taking a pound coin out as compensation for having had his time wasted.

His prostate trouble was just about holding its own and he still couldn't get a full erection. He’d had pills for both but neither had worked, although the pill he’d taken for his erection problem had eased his prostate trouble a little whilst doing absolutely nothing for him in the tumescence department.

His arthritic knee was definitely worse. It was now twice as big as his other knee, which itself was twice as big as it should be, on account of it having water on it.

Galloway had twice tried to steer the conversation on to another subject, but to no avail. He would have had more chance trying to stop a cattle stampede with a water pistol. When Hanson had stopped to draw breath - which incidentally he was becoming much shorter of these days whenever he walked up hills, the doctor didn’t know why but then he didn’t know anything – Galloway had remarked, “I believe the weather's going to turn colder tomorrow.” Hanson had immediately replied with, “It won't be as cold as my foot. It’s like ice my foot. Hardening of the arteries you see. Not a thing to be done for it,” he added, taking a deep drag on his cigarette and setting his dry cough off again.

Galloway hadn't bothered to make any further attempts to stem the flow, satisfied that having inadvertently drawn Hanson's attention to his cold foot he had caused him to miss out his sore shins and fallen arches. Hanson now moved on to the verruca on his heel, no better, and then to the last of his maladies, his hammer-toe, which was now worse since the last time they had spoken due to it having developed a painful corn on it. He had seen a chiropodist last week and she had never seen anything like it in her life, had never set eyes on such a nasty looking corn and hoped never to set eyes on another, it was far beyond her scope, he would need an operation, but there was a four year waiting list so he'd just have to go on suffering.

At least I won't have to go on suffering, thought Galloway, as he breathed a sigh of relief on the completion of the tour of Hanson’s sick body, having had more than enough of his ailments. Pleased that he would now be able to concentrate on his golf Galloway congratulated himself that he’d got off relatively lightly this time as the last time they'd played together they’d reached the ninth green before Hanson had completed his catalogue of illnesses.

They continued walking down the fairway towards their golf balls.
“And the wife is just as bad,” said Hanson. “She has this....”

9.30 a.m.

H Jackman (8)

P Keaney (12)

B Littler (17)

Waiting to tee off at the first, Harry Jackman, Peter Keaney and Bernard Littler were all standing deep in thought. Mr Captain, observing this from a few yards away, was about to ask them if he could help them with whatever problem they appeared to be wrestling with when suddenly Jackman shouted out the single word “Fluffing!”

Keaney and Littler considered Jackman’s proclamation for a moment or two, but without any great enthusiasm. Littler wasn’t keen all. It was better than nothing he supposed, but it wasn't the one. Keaney felt much the same way. “Not bad,” he said, “But I’m sure we can do better.”

The three gave the matter further thought and Mr Captain was again about to break in on their musings to see if he could be of assistance when Keaney, suddenly inspired, cried out “Mucky Nell!”

Jackman and Littler were immediately impressed. This was more like it.

“
Oh yes,” congratulated the former, “Yes, I like that. I like that a lot.”

“
Me too,” said Littler. “It sounds just the ticket.”

Jackman turned to Mr Captain and called, “What say you, Mr Captain?”

“
What's that, Harry?” said Mr Captain, closing in on them.

Jackman explained. “Now that we aren't allowed to swear we're trying to find a suitable alternative for when we feel the need to say effing hell. Peter has suggested 'Mucky Nell’.”

“
We've already got an alternative for the C-word,” Littler added.

“
Kunt,” said Keaney. “Spelt with a 'K'. An old Norse word we’re told. It means a young cat, apparently. It will need your approval, of course.”

“
Well it won't be getting it,” snapped Mr Captain, and made a mental note to add the K-word to the list of other words that were banned.

“
But what do you think to Mucky Nell as an alternative to effing hell?”

Mr Captain treated the threesome to a withering glare. “What I think is that the three of you would be far better employed concentrating your minds on not using the F-word or the C-word, thus safeguarding your position as members of this golf club, rather than wasting your time trying to find alternatives for them,” he barked sententiously. “One man has already booked himself an appointment with the General Committee this morning.”

“
For swearing?” asked Little.

“
For swearing,” affirmed Mr Captain.

“
Who was it?” said Jackman.

“
George Fidler.”

“
Mucky Nell!” said Keaney.

The best place to thieve golf balls, Jason had found, was about halfway down the long par five third, where rich pickings were always to be had. This was because the area where the balls came to rest was in a hollow in the fairway, which gathered them in, and which was obscured from the tee some two hundred and fifty yards distant by a large hillock. Thus after all the tee shots had been played it gave a ball thief ample time to climb over the boundary wall, purloin one of the balls, and be safe back over the other side of the wall before the golfers came into view. Not wishing to cook the goose that laid the golden eggs, Jason only ever took one of the balls, as to take more might lead the golfers into suspecting something was amiss, whereas one lost ball wouldn't draw any suspicion, a single golfer losing his ball being nearer the norm at Sunnymere rather than something out of the ordinary. And why take the risk? Golfers in groups of three and four were like buses, there'd be another one along in a few minutes, and he'd be able to steal one of their balls too, to add to his booty.

One such ball now skipped down the hill and came to rest in the hollow, joining the two that were already there. Jason wasted no time about it, nipped over the wall, ran quickly onto the fairway, pocketed the nearest of the balls, and was back behind the wall and into hiding in the time you could say Dunlop 65, which is what the ball happened to be.

Tobin wasn't at all happy about the fact that Grover's Nike sweater had stretched; or titted, as Grover had so graphically described its condition. Something was definitely wrong. In the professional’s experience Nike sweaters had never stretched before and he must have sold hundreds of them in the seven years he'd been dealing with the company, although, as far as he knew, none of the men's sweaters he had sold thus far had ever been subjected to having a pair of ladies’ breasts in them for an hour or two. But even bearing that in mind it shouldn’t have happened; this was a quality garment you were talking about here, surely it should have reverted back to its original shape once the offending breasts had been removed? Tobin decided the only thing for it was to conduct an experiment in order to find out for certain. Darren was the chosen guinea pig. “Put this on, Darren,” he said to his assistant, handing him a Nike sweater, “I want to try something out.”

Unquestioningly, for you do not question the motives of a man who is smart enough to know the golf kit requirements of every member of the club, Darren slipped the sweater over his head.

Tobin looked around for something that might fill in as breasts. Golf balls? Too small. Golf shoes? Too big. And the wrong shape, unless you were trying to duplicate the pendulous appendages of Mrs Rattray. Golf club head covers? They would do perhaps, if stuffed with something to make them firm. He took a few pairs of socks from a shelf and stuffed a couple of pairs into each of the two woollen head covers, then put the covers up Darren's sweater in the approximate position of a pair of breasts.

Darren looked down at his newly-acquired falsies. “Awesome.”

“
Leave them there for an hour or two, we'll see if they stretch the sweater any,” said Tobin. However as he stepped back to inspect his handiwork he observed that the breasts weren't quite right, the right one being a bit higher than the left and the left one a touch too far left, so he took one in each hand and commenced to jiggle them around to get them in the right position.

And was thus indirectly responsible for contributing hugely to the spoiling of Mr Captain’s Day.

The quick walk from her home to the golf club had made Millicent's throat dry – she hoped it wasn't one of her summer colds coming on – and she had decided on her way to the clubhouse to await the arrival of Daddy Rhythm that she would call in at the pro's shop for a tube of those eucalyptus lozenges he sold. She would have bought something for her throat elsewhere had it been convenient, as she didn't at all care for Tobin. She didn't care for tradesmen in general, considering them a necessary evil, but she especially didn’t like avaricious charlatans like Sunnymere’s professional.

In consequence of this she patronised his shop only when absolutely necessary, and even then only for articles she couldn't readily obtain elsewhere, such as golf clubs and balls. The clothes she golfed in were purchased from Debenhams in Derby, where one could guarantee the quality, and whose sales assistants didn't try to sell you the entire contents of the shop every time you set foot in it.

In fact Millicent, aided and abetted by Mr Captain, planned to get rid of Tobin at the earliest possible convenience. It was just a matter of how and when, and of the right opportunity presenting itself.

It had dawned on Millicent some time ago that Tobin was relieving the members of Sunnymere of a great deal of their money. She didn't know how much exactly but she suspected it was a very substantial amount. The man drove a this year's registration Mercedes SL for goodness sake and you didn’t buy those with tram tickets. An educated guess at Tobin's annual turnover, arrived at by a combination of spending long periods watching people enter his shop and observing what they came out with, and simply by asking golfing friends what they had bought from Tobin on the pretext of comparing prices, put the figure in the region of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year. Profits, so far as she was able to discern, would be at least a hundred thousand pounds. Why should that hundred thousand pounds go to Tobin, she had asked herself? Why did it take the services of a professional golfer to sell sweaters and shirts and trousers and such? Anyone could do that. Get rid of Tobin and the hundred thousand pounds profit, less the government minimum wages you would have to pay for a couple of young shop assistants to run the shop, would benefit the club. Especially the ladies’ section, whose locker room was in dire need of a new carpet and pretty curtains, if not a complete make-over including a more extensive and luxurious powder room and a Jacuzzi. But with the best part of a hundred thousand pounds extra income coming into the club every year plans could be made for even more than those absolute necessities.

Whilst he was still jiggling Darren’s artificial breasts around, something suddenly dawned on Tobin. The thought of it caused his jaw to drop in surprise. “She hasn't got any tits!” he blurted out.