Just Desserts (2 page)

‘There's enough for two men, with the winter programme of works on the course we've just agreed. The drainage and the new paths are quite big projects. I don't think Hooper will have time on his hands, but if he has, I can always get him to give a hand with the catering or in the bar at the weekends. Young Barry doesn't mind turning his hand to anything, and he lives near enough to come in whenever we want him. He has his own transport.'

‘But are you happy to take the lad on permanently, Chris? It's not easy to get rid of labour, after the probation period. And Hooper had a pretty chequered employment record before he came to us.'

‘I know that. But he's settled in well here. He loves the outdoor work. And he's not a shirker. He gives full value for what we pay him.'

Nayland grinned. ‘With a greenkeeper like Alan Fitch and a manager like you, he won't get much chance to slack, I'm sure.' He had made the proper noises, asked the ritual questions expected of the man who paid the wages, but he had always been going to accept the suggestion about this latest addition to the permanent staff. Hooper was a good worker and in truth they paid him not much above the minimum wage.

The decision made good commercial sense. He would give the lad a small rise, when the pace of work quickened on the course in spring. ‘All right, you can tell him he's now on the permanent staff, a proper member of the team.'

Chris Pearson wondered if it was a residue of Nayland's Army officer's training that made him constantly stress the importance of the team ethic. But it was appropriate enough, with the small, carefully selected workforce they employed. He said, ‘It will be a nice surprise for the boy, with Christmas not too far away.' Barry Hooper was twenty-two, but both he and Nayland had reached the age where they thought of such men as lads.

‘Speaking of Christmas, I thought we might take the staff out for a meal some time in December,' said Nayland. It's ten years since this little enterprise began, and a modest celebration seems to be in order.'

‘Good idea!' said Pearson promptly. ‘Did you have anywhere in mind for this little party?'

‘I thought we might push the boat out. Go to Soutters Restaurant in Newent.'

Pearson whistled softly. ‘That would cost a bit.' Soutters was quality: well worth the price for its food and its ambience, but not cheap.

Patrick Nayland grinned. ‘We can afford it, once every ten years. And it's a small, intimate place, just the right size for us. We could take over the whole restaurant for an evening for our little party. They're pretty fully booked in the run-up to Christmas, but I've already reserved an evening for us. I'll confirm it, and you can let the staff know next week.'

It sounded like a most agreeable evening. It should have left Chris Pearson with a warm glow of anticipation as darkness fell and he was left alone in the office behind the reception area.

He could not work out quite why he felt so apprehensive about the evening at Soutters. Celebrating the first ten years was a splendid notion, and could only encourage everyone to pull together in the months ahead. It could only help to make the boss more popular still.

For, after all, everyone liked Patrick Nayland.

‘W
e'll have a nice meal together. Open a bottle of wine and relax over it. It's a while since we did that.' Liza Nayland's words to her daughter rang falsely bright and cheerful in the big modern kitchen.

‘Can't do Saturday. I go out on Saturday nights.'

‘I know you do, dear. We'll make it Sunday then. We'll eat around six thirty. I'll get some of that fillet steak you like in the morning.'

‘He likes, you mean.'

‘Not “he”, Michelle. “He” has a name, you know. I don't know why you can't just call him Dad.'

‘Because he's not. That's quite simple, Mum. I've got a dad, and it's not him.'

Her mother sighed wearily. ‘You've got to move on, Michelle. You've got to face facts. You've got a new life now.'

‘You have, you mean. Don't pretend that I have. It wasn't my choice. I wasn't even consulted.' Michelle Nayland knew she wasn't being fair, that she was behaving more like a child than a woman of twenty-three. But at that moment she had no desire to be fair.

Her mother forced herself to remain calm: they had been down this road often enough before, and things would only get worse if she showed her anger. ‘You
were
consulted, dear. And I know you didn't see things my way. That's a pity, but I had to go ahead and make my own decision. You may think I'm ancient, but I've got a lot of my life still to live, I hope!'

Michelle grinned, forced herself to relax. ‘Of course you have, Mum. I can't disguise the fact that I wish you'd chosen to live it with someone else, but it's not fair of me to go on moaning about it. Look, make that meal fairly early on Sunday evening, and I'll be there and smiling!'

‘It's a deal. And I bet you don't leave the steak, whatever you say.' They were happy with each other again, increasingly so as they moved on to other and less emotional things.

Michelle told herself that this wasn't the moment to reveal her news. Instead, she must steel herself to be nice on Sunday evening.

Her mother obviously still didn't know about Patrick.

Alan Fitch, the greenkeeper at Camellia Park, was one of Chris Pearson's ‘finds', one of the reasons why the modest little golf course had been so successful in its first ten years.

Fitch had spent eleven years in the Merchant Navy, a period which he claimed was responsible for the versatility which everyone remarked in him. He could turn his hand to most things, and his willingness to do so had been his most valuable quality in getting the new venture off the ground and into eventual profit.

He was not only good at operating the various machinery needed on a golf course, but good at maintaining it. He had serviced the mowers and the chainsaws which had been bought second-hand in the early years of the course. When the old tractor – which was their single powered vehicle in the early days – broke down, Alan Fitch had usually been able to diagnose the problem. He had even been prepared to tour the scrapyards of Gloucestershire in pursuit of cheap replacement parts, and he had fitted them himself.

His title had recently been elevated to Head Greenkeeper, for he now had Barry Hooper as his workforce. Fitch was a stern taskmaster, prone to hark back to those early days of the course, which became ever more attractive in retrospect. When Barry had arrived as a junior and temporary employee, Alan had been frankly suspicious of the black boy and his motives. How much of this was down to racial prejudice, even Alan Fitch himself could not have determined. He had trained himself not to think deeply about such things, having had for many years to accept the decisions of those around him. He had worked with a variety of nations during his days at sea, but that was a long time ago, when white British people on British ships had just accepted that ‘the foreigners' would not be promoted beyond a certain level.

Barry Hooper won him over. Whatever the wiry young lad really thought, he accepted his boss's early strictures without complaint. ‘Keep your head down and get on with it, whatever you might think. You're not paid to think,' Alan Fitch had said to him on his first morning. To the greenkeeper's secret surprise, Barry Hooper did just that.

‘Right, boss,' was his standard response to any command; then he went away and did it. But he was not cowed. Barry did not always understand exactly what was necessary, but when he needed advice he asked for it. The nature of the work meant that the pair were a two-man team, which was supplemented only on those rare occasions when an outside contractor was brought in for some specialist task. Most of the work on the course they did together, with Alan Fitch always as the senior and directing partner.

They made an unlikely pair, the stocky, powerful 55-year-old, with his heavily lined forehead and his tattooed arms, and the slim, swift, young coloured man who responded to his every suggestion. But they had some things in common. Hooper, who had never had the opportunity to work in the open air in his chequered pattern of previous employment, discovered that he loved the outdoor life and the wide skies above him as much as did the man who had spent eleven years at sea.

Fitch, who had been born and bred in Gloucestershire, taught his protégé about the birds and the wild flowers which were their friends and the coarse grasses and weeds which were their enemies upon the course. And Barry Hooper thrived upon every minute of it. He grew to love the changing seasons and the way they manifested themselves in his new small world of the golf course. He had revelled in the long days of summer, and in the months to come, even the winter rains and frosts would be welcome to a young man who had chafed in a factory and sweated in a slaughterhouse during previous periods of employment.

He was enjoying this unexpected period of calm, sunny days at the end of November, as much as any weather so far. It was too late to be an Indian summer, but it was a balmy autumn bonus, before the trees were stripped of leaves and the water froze on the little pond on the third. Barry Hooper sang as he went about his work, and Alan Fitch smiled a happy inner smile, even as he pretended to rebuke this relentless cheerfulness in his workforce.

On this last afternoon of November, they were extending the tee on the fourth hole, and Barry was enjoying the learning process this involved for him. They had levelled the ground weeks ago. It had seemed flat and ready for the new turf to Barry, but Fitch had explained that the ground needed to settle before they could even think about laying turf. They had left it for ten days, then come back and raked and trodden the patch again, with the older man full of amusement at his assistant's impatience to have the job completed.

Now they gave the ground its final preparation, with Fitch using a spirit level attached to a plank to get the ground exactly level, setting a standard which he knew the younger man would adhere to in the years to come. ‘Half an inch below the existing level, remember!' he said sternly. ‘Remember, two hours spent on preparation saves days of work on reparation.' He was rather proud of that maxim, which he had invented for himself.

‘You said the new turf was an inch thick. Surely that means an inch lower!' said Barry triumphantly. He'd show the boss that he'd been paying attention to everything he said: if he could catch him out at the same time, that would be doubly satisfying.

Fitch smiled into the eager, mischievous young face. ‘We lay half an inch proud of the existing tee,' he insisted. ‘There'll still be some settlement as the new turf beds in, and that and the many feet that are going to tread upon it will lower our new patch by about half an inch. That's the theory, and those are the measurements we work to. But full marks for paying attention!'

Fitch looked at the sky as they finished the work. ‘This weather looks settled for a while longer yet. We'll get the turf laid, day after tomorrow. With a bit of luck, the roots will get a hold before the real winter sets in. This new patch'll be ready to use by next May. We'll put the tee right at the back for the club championship. Bit of extra length will suit lads like you, with more brawn than brains!'

He grinned affectionately at Hooper, who had recently been introduced to the mysteries of golf, but the young man's face clouded suddenly. ‘I might not be here then,' he said dolefully. Six months was a long time ahead in his young life. He had never held a job for that long until now, and he realized suddenly how much this one meant to him.

Fitch smiled a knowing smile, but kept his news until they were back in the greenkeeper's shed, with the kettle coming to the boil and the milk ready in the beakers. ‘Got something to tell you,' he said. He didn't look at the younger man, being beset with a sudden and uncharacteristic diffidence because he had good news to deliver.

The owner had confirmed the appointment with his manager, and the manager had told his greenkeeper. Now the greenkeeper was to communicate the tidings to the young man it most concerned. That was the way things operated at Camellia Park; it reinforced the unstated hierarchy of the team, but gave each tier of it in turn a little pleasure.

Fitch was pouring the boiling water into the teapot by the time he said, as casually as he could, ‘I've got some good news for you, young Hooper. At least I hope it's good. Job's yours on a permanent basis if you want it, and there'll be a small rise for you in the new year.' He delivered his tidings all in a rush, finding the good news was suddenly an embarrassment to him, instead of the pleasure he had anticipated.

Barry for his part could scarcely contain his joy. He made a brief attempt to accept the news in the matter-of-fact, man-to-man way in which it had been delivered, but his unlined black countenance shone with a pleasure he could not disguise and his smile stretched towards the ears at the sides of the slim face. ‘I won't let you down, Mr Fitch!' he said tremulously, when he could finally trust himself with words.

Alan Fitch thought of pointing out that it wasn't his decision, that all he could do was recommend the appointment. He wanted to say that this was no more than a hard-working and conscientious employee deserved. Instead, he said nothing, and the two men drank their tea in a comfortable silence, their world as perfect as the autumn weather outside the shed.

It would be a long time before either of them felt quite so comfortable again.

Joanne Moss had never thought the job would develop as it had. When she had taken it on seven years ago, ‘Catering Manager' had been a grandiose title. She had worked part-time then, serving a few refreshments at weekends in the tiny wooden hut which served as a clubhouse for the little golf course in its early days.

But the demand for after-golf amenities had grown with the success of Camellia Park, had even outstripped the growth of the course. For the last three years, she had operated in a new brick-built, one-storey building behind the office where the green fees were taken and golf equipment sold. Now there was a bar and a weekend steward; Joanne had a new and well-equipped kitchen, and the Sunday lunches provided for members and guests were one of the features of the club which made it most popular. ‘Just like a real golf club!' she heard people say appreciatively, unconscious of any irony in the phrase.