Putting Things Straight

Putting Things Straight

Tony Jones

Putting Things Straight

Tony Jones

Copyright Tony Jones 2012

Published by Tony Jones in 2012

Published by Tony Jones publishing at Smashwords

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All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

For Isobel for her encouragement and for all those struggling golfers who dare to dream.

"When you come to play golf ye maun hae a heid" – Long Willie

"By working faithfully eight hours a day you may eventually get to be boss and work twelve hours a day"–Robert Frost

"Love is a Many-Splendored Thing" –Sammy Fain and Paul Francis Webster

Chapter 1

Roy was sitting in a rather dismal office on a Friday afternoon doing very little. He worked in the production planning department of Milton’s –a medium-sized manufacturing company that produced automotive components in Abernant, a medium-sized town in South Wales. Business was slack at the moment so there was no weekend work to plan and he should have been bored. Roy was not bored but was busy daydreaming about golf. Under the desk he was fondling the grip of his six iron and was just about to send the ball soaring into the blue sky to land like a poached egg on the eighteenth green at Augusta, sending Peter Alliss into ecstasy. He had read somewhere that one of the top professionals carried a club around with him wherever he went, so he was giving it a try.

His reverie was cut short when his boss, James Jones, walked in. Jones was tall, thin and cadaverous and was rarely seen without a cigarette in his mouth. He could have been an undertaker with his dark suit and gloomy aura. His lack of a sense of humour was legendary; nobody could ever recall seeing him smile. This had earned him the nickname Sunny Jim which had now been shortened to Sunny. He was never called Sunny to his face and no one was really sure whether he knew that this was his nickname. His age was indeterminate, as was the age of his suit. Within living memory both had always looked exactly the same. Even though it was now 1984 he still referred to his staff by their surnames. His staff in this office consisted of three people; Peter Hardacre, Roy Wood and Joyce Davies.

Hardacre was a bluff Yorkshireman with thinning, sandy-coloured hair and a matching beard and moustache. He had been brought down on secondment from the Leeds plant to introduce a new computerised planning system and he had immediately become known as Bradley Hardacre after the popular TV character. In truth no one believed that there was a need for the computer system as the tried and tested work card system worked perfectly well. The company was keen to modernise, however, and Mr Thomas, the Works Manager, realised that there were no prizes for appearing to be a Luddite. Sunny hated the idea of computers and was convinced the new system was a waste of time but he too knew the way that the wind was blowing. Hardacre was in his mid-thirties, divorced and rumoured to be very well connected in the company. There was more than a suspicion that any dissenting voices would be reported back to the big bosses at the head office in Leeds, so everyone was at pains to be positive about the computer system in his presence. The fact that the code name of the system was SAIS did not help as this was also the Welsh word for English. Hardacre was learning Welsh, nobody could really understand why, as Welsh was rarely spoken in this part of Wales. Perhaps it was an attempt to go local and ingratiate himself? Anyway, it did make him stand out even more.

Joyce Davies was a clerk-cum-secretary and was about fifty. She was equipped with an extremely malevolent tongue and was never happier than when she was slagging off people behind their backs. Sunny was her normal target but it certainly did not end there. Roy felt very sorry for her husband who also worked at the plant as a foreman. Joyce was always well turned out and had kept her figure. Her hair colour varied, depending on the whim of her hairdresser, but it was assumed by now that it must be naturally grey. In her youth she had been regarded as a bit of a looker and from a distance you might still think she was one. In close proximity, however, the thick layer of make-up could not disguise the tell-tale wrinkles. If she could have afforded plastic surgery there was no doubt that she would have taken advantage of it. She had a disturbing penchant for wearing skirts that were a little too short. For some reason she had taken a shine to Roy and even gave him the occasional sweet when she was in a good mood.

Roy was twenty-six and had been with the company since he left school after his rather mediocre A’ levels. He had not really got anywhere in the management structure but he was actually a key man in the company – although nobody seemed to realise it. He knew everyone and knew how to get things done but he was not a man for using rigid systems and writing things down and as a consequence, when he was on holiday, things often collapsed and he virtually always had to be contacted. He was known by everyone as Wizz, a nickname that had stayed with him from school and was derived from the pop group – Roy Wood’s Wizard. He was quite tall and wiry with curly dark hair and his mother thought he was quite handsome, although Roy didn’t quite look at himself through the same rose-tinted spectacles. Over the years he had tried growing his hair and even growing a bandido moustache to try and enhance his rather plain face but to no lasting effect. Currently his hair was cut unfashionably short and he did not sport any facial hair. From a distance he looked athletic even though he was not. He had never been any good at rugby or even football and, in desperation, three years previously he had taken up golf. Not that he was any good at that either but he had quickly become hooked on it and become a golf-aholic. He had joined the local club and had undertaken a course of lessons from the local golf pro. At one stage the pro had almost given up on him but realised that no matter how soul-destroying lessons with Roy were, it could be a nice earner for many years to come. Roy was optimistic about his golf and felt that he was improving and that he had the potential to actually achieve something playing golf. Roy’s other obsession was beer and he liked nothing better than a bellyful of beer in town on a Friday night. Roy had never been particularly lucky with girls and did not have a particular desire to settle down. Of course there had been the occasional conquest but no lasting relationship. He did still harbour a concern about the Works’ Christmas Party a couple of years ago when he had got totally bladdered and vaguely remembered smooching with Joyce.

Roy jumped when he realised that Sunny was talking to him.

‘Wood, where are next week’s work cards? I’d like to have a quick glance before I go home.’

Roy knew he had his trusty six iron under the desk and that Sunny would take an extremely dim view of it if he caught sight of it.

‘I’ll bring them into your office straight away, Mr Jones,’ he stammered.

For one moment he thought that Sunny was going to say something else to him but instead he turned to Hardacre and asked him how everything was going with SAIS, and in a simpering tone, asked if there was anything he could do to help. Hardacre told him confidently that things were going well and that he would like to try it out alongside the card system in a few weeks. Whilst this conversation had been taking place, Roy had managed to lay the golf club on the floor under the desk and gather up the work cards. As Sunny turned back to him he passed him the cards and Sunny went back to his office.

With a sigh, Roy returned to his reverie. It was mid-March and only a couple of weeks before the summer golf season would start. This meant a club competition every Saturday and lots of opportunities to finally pull off that elusive win. Roy had been trying hard for the last two years and had never done better than one sixth place, but this had been on the day that the local rugby team had been playing in the cup final and most of the men had been down in Cardiff watching the match. He felt in his water that this was going to be his year and he was going to break his duck. It would not be easy but if he failed this year it would not be due to a lack of hard work and discipline. The hard work was due to start that evening as he had his clubs in the car and he was going to go down to the driving range to hit a hundred balls. The discipline was also due to start that evening and he had vowed to only drink an absolute maximum of four pints of beer.

Sunny crashed back into the room in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

‘Wood, have a look at the Ford order, I think you’ve cocked it up,’ he wheezed.

Roy knew better than to argue and heard himself whine, ‘Certainly, Mr Jones, I’ll do it straight away.’

Roy knew that there was nothing wrong with the card as the buyer from Ford had phoned up earlier to amend their order but he also realised that it was good for Sunny to have an occasional moment of triumph.

‘You must concentrate on your work, Wood,’ Sunny said, rather smugly, and turned on his heel and disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Roy glanced across at his office mates. Hardacre seemed to be engrossed in a computer manual but Roy could just see a Welsh grammar book cunningly placed inside. He could see Hardacre’s lips move as he conjugated a verb.

‘How’s the Welsh coming on, Bradley?’ he ventured.

Hardacre knew that he had been rumbled but chose not to bite.

‘Don’t thou disturb me, this project is vital to t’success of t’business,’ he drawled and returned to his book.

Joyce was busy carrying out her third manicure of the day but she still saw Roy looking over and smiled at him and seemed to reveal a bit more thigh. Roy quickly glanced away and suddenly became engrossed in the Ford order.

Time seemed to move very slowly but at last it was 5pm and Roy was free for the weekend. He had decided to bring his golfing clothes with him so that he could go straight to the driving range and start work on his rather erratic driving. He crossed the yard from the offices to the factory and went into the locker room to change. He had been to the sales in Cardiff and now had a full golfing ensemble by Pringle and this would be its first outing. Most people did not dress up to go to the driving range but Roy thought that he had read somewhere that Nick Faldo always practised in what he was going to wear before he played. He glanced at himself in the mirror and knew that he certainly looked the part. He was still not quite sure about the red trousers but the yellow sweater was stunning. As he stood admiring himself in the mirror he suddenly realised that he was not alone. Tom Lewis the charge-hand on one of the production lines had crept in and was looking intently at him. Tom had played prop forward for the local team and was an almost square man with a battered face, a broken nose and plenty of scar tissue. He had only recently stopped playing rugby and he was held in awe by all the boys on the shop-floor. He was known as a character and was always ready for a bit of banter.

‘Fucking hell, Wizz, you look like a fucking parrot,’ he chortled.

Roy knew that he couldn’t win in this situation and decided to come clean. ‘It’s my golfing outfit, I’m just off down the range to get some practice in,’ he managed.

‘They’ll certainly see you fucking coming!’ was the rejoinder. Then Tom became surprisingly serious and said, ‘I have just taken up fucking golf myself. I need something to get some exercise now that I have given up the rugby see. Me and some of the boys have joined the new club that has opened up in Llangoed.’

An idea formed in Roy’s mind and before he could stop himself he blurted out, ‘We should have our own company golfing society and go and play on some of the posh courses. Everyone does it these days; you can get special rates and everything.’

‘Fucking hell that’s a fucking great idea, Wizz,’ enthused Tom and Roy realised that he had set a snowball rolling down Mount Everest. Two fuckings in one sentence meant Tom was keen. Before he knew it Roy had been appointed secretary and Tom had assumed the captaincy and was off to drum up members.

‘Is the world ready for this?’ murmured Roy as he walked to the car park.

Roy drove slowly down to the Grove Driving Range. He didn’t have a lot of choice since his old Ford Escort could not manage fast. It served him well enough but was hardly a fanny magnet and he knew he should really buy a newer car as the Abernant Golf Club Secretary usually looked down his nose at it when he saw it parked in the club car park. He had just bought a two-up two-down terraced house in the centre of Abernant and what with the mortgage and the cost of doing it up, money would be scarce. Although he couldn’t really afford the hefty annual subscription to play golf he was determined that he would carry on. He had secured a bank loan to do the house up but so far had not spent a penny on it. Nevertheless the money was disappearing alarmingly quickly.

Even though there were three golf clubs in Abernant, there was only one driving range and that was the Grove. The clientele was an eclectic mix to say the least and scratch golfers mixed with people swinging a club for the first time. There were frequent shrieks of laughter intermingled with the occasional oath. People of all ages and all builds, equipped with everything from hickory-shafted golf clubs to the latest graphite shafts, were hitting balls in all directions. Roy got his first bucket of fifty balls from the dispensing machine and was pleased to see that his favourite booth was unoccupied. It was tucked away towards the end but had a good line towards the two hundred-yard flag. Not that Roy had ever managed to reach the two hundred-yard flag but it presented a challenge that spurred him on. The two hundred-yard flag was not in his mind as he reached for his trusty six iron but realised it was not in his bag. Roy knew exactly where it was – he had left it on the floor in the office and his whole practice routine was now in disarray.

‘Never mind let’s try the five iron,’ he murmured and pulled it out of his golf bag as if he was drawing a sword from its scabbard.

He glanced across at the old fellow in the next booth who looked like he couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag.

‘This should be good for a laugh,’ he muttered.

The old guy put his ball on the tee and suddenly became a young man. His swing was smooth but the club head was a blur as he pinged a shot out straight over the two hundred-yard flag. Roy gasped and looked away quickly in case it expanded his ever-burgeoning golf inferiority complex. No matter how hard he tried, he was conscious of the whoosh and crisp crack as the man continued to knock out perfect shots with the rhythm of a metronome. Roy concentrated on his first shot and tried to remember all the things the pro had told him: get the grip right, keep your head down, straight left arm, follow through –the list was endless. Finally he swung the club and managed to miss the ball completely.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered under his breath.

He actually managed to hit the ball with his next attempt but it was a huge slice.

‘I’m not aligned properly,’ he berated himself and shuffled his feet but only succeeded in making himself feel more uncomfortable.

The outcome was the same, a slice, although Roy managed to convince himself that it wasn’t as bad as the previous hack. He re-examined his grip and made an adjustment, he remembered something about the alignment of the vee formed between his index finger and thumb. He was just about to complete his backswing when he heard a voice he knew only too well.

‘Greetings Wizz, my old mucker, bet you’re glad to see me.’

It was his best friend, Brian Emerson, or Emo as he was universally known. It was a shock to see him at the Grove as he was not a golfer and made a habit of taking the piss out of golfers and anything to do with golf. In contrast to Roy, Emo was short and stocky and had thinning light brown hair and had always been good with the girls. Emo was a decent football player but his poorish eyesight had restricted him to turning out in the local Sunday league. Emo was also a football fan and followed Cardiff City home and away and was a true Bluebird. Emo was not one of the hard-line Cardiff Boot Boys but enjoyed his football in an almost academic way and took great joy in analysing each match in excruciating detail. Roy had occasionally gone to Ninian Park with him but had not been bitten by the bug and now tried to avoid it. Emo and Roy had gone to school together and had been friends ever since. After school Emo had taken up a place at a teacher training college up North and was now teaching at the local comprehensive. He lived with his long-term girlfriend June who he had met whilst at college and who now taught at a junior school in the town. June was very understanding about Emo’s football habit but otherwise kept a tight rein on him.

‘What the fuck are you doing here, Emo, are you lost?’ enquired Roy.

‘Didn’t you see me flashing my lights at you as you were driving down the bypass? I guessed you would be coming here and I fancied a pint. So what about it?’ begged Emo.

‘Can’t you see I’m practising? It’s only two weeks before the season starts,’ snapped Roy.

‘From what I saw I don’t think missing an hour’s practice will make a lot of difference, you’ll never be any bloody good,’ hooted Emo. ‘Anyway I have something important to tell you, let’s have a quick pint in the Fountain on the way back to town.’

Roy knew the battle was lost and anyway he was curious to know what the news was and said resignedly, ‘OK, I’ll join you for a pint but this had better be good!’

Roy reluctantly packed up his golf stuff and gave his almost full bucket of balls to the old man in the next booth. ‘Felt a slight twinge in my back,’ he explained.

They drove in convoy to the Fountain, a big old pub that had been a coaching inn in former times. It now concentrated on food but still had quite a nice public bar with decent beer. Emo bought the beer, which made Roy suspicious as he never usually bought the first round.

They sat down but before Roy had had his first sip, Emo blurted out, ‘Wizz, I’m getting married.’

Before Roy realised it he had said, ‘Who to?’

‘June of course, and before you ask, no she is not pregnant. We’ve decided to make it official. We’ve set the date for the twenty-third of June. I love her, Wizz.’

‘Congratulations Emo, it’s about time,’ yelled Roy. ‘Fucking hell we need to celebrate this.’

‘There’s one thing more, Wizz, we want you to be our best man,’ said Emo quietly.

Roy immediately said, ‘Of course Emo, I would be delighted,’ and his mind was already racing, thinking about shagging the bridesmaids. He looked at his glass and realised that he had downed his pint without thinking.

‘We’d better have another pint,’ he said.

That pint did not last very long either and they had reached a pivotal moment.

‘Fuck it,’ said Emo, ‘this sort of thing doesn’t happen often, let’s have a few more, we can leave the cars in the car park and pick them up tomorrow morning, June will give us a lift.’

‘It’s Saturday tomorrow, I’m supposed to be playing golf in the morning,’ whined Roy but he knew the die was already cast.

One pint led to another and they ended up as pissed as newts but somehow managed to get the barmaid to order a taxi to get them back to town.

‘Fancy a curry?’ said Emo and Roy realised he was absolutely starving.

The taxi dropped them off at the Star of India and they sat down to their usuals. Roy favoured chicken dhansak whilst Emo had the meat madras. A group of boys at a nearby table started to take the piss out of Roy’s colourful outfit but eventually gave up when no response was forthcoming. Another beer with the meal and terminal tiredness had set in. Roy was within staggering distance of his house and left Emo in the restaurant, waiting for a taxi. Expending his last vestiges of energy he managed to get back to his house, clamber up the stairs and collapse on his bed.

The next thing Roy heard was the doorbell ringing.

He prised himself out of bed and stumbled across to the window and saw Emo outside ringing the bell with June sitting in the car.

He opened the window and croaked, ‘Be with you in a minute.’

He had a splitting headache and headed to the bathroom for some pills. He glanced at himself in the mirror and realised he was still fully clothed. Then his barely open eyes spotted the telltale brown mark on his new Pringle sweater. He didn’t need to look any closer, he knew exactly what it was. It was last night’s dhansak and it was doubtful whether it could ever be completely removed by any chemical known to man. He looked at his watch it was 10.05 – he needed to get himself in gear rapido. He quickly changed into jeans and T-shirt and swilled some water on his face. His teeth would have to wait until he got back.

Roy hastily left the house and got into the car. June was normally a pretty, dark-haired girl with a lovely smile but at this moment she had a face like thunder and you could cut the atmosphere in the car with a knife. He wondered how Emo had fared on his return last night.

‘Good morning both,’ he said pleasantly and added, ‘Congratulations, June.’

Stony silence greeted his valiant attempt at conversation so Roy sat quietly in the back hoping that he was not going to be sick on the way to the Fountain. As they neared the Fountain, Roy had a terrible feeling of foreboding. When they pulled into the car park he noticed immediately that his car looked different and he quickly saw why, the boot was ajar and the driver’s window was missing.

‘Fucking hell!’ he shouted and automatically said, ‘Sorry June.’ Then the terrible truth was upon him. My clubs, my fucking clubs!’ he almost sobbed.

He jumped out of the car and threw open the boot of his stricken car and sure enough there were no golf clubs.

His heart sank, ‘What am I going to do?’ He did sob this time.

By then Emo had joined him and said helpfully, ‘At least they didn’t take your shoes.’ As an afterthought he added, ‘Your insurance will cover it, you’ll get a new set of clubs out of this.’

Roy wasn’t so sure and wanted to rush home and look at his policy. It was certainly fully comp, but he couldn’t remember about the cover for contents.

All this time June had sat impassively in the car but then she said spitefully, ‘Serves you right, Wizz,’ and drove off.

Of course Emo’s car was untouched; Roy bemoaned the lack of justice in the world.

‘I’ll need to phone the police, there’s a phone box across the road,’ he muttered despondently.

Of course the phone box had been vandalised which did nothing to improve his mental state.

Fortunately the landlord of the Fountain had appeared and came over to sympathise, ‘Bad luck,’ he said, ‘ you are the sixth this month, it’s those little bastards from the estate.’

He let Roy use his phone and helpfully gave him some plastic bags and tape to affect a temporary repair to his window. Emo made his apologies and left, Roy knew that he had some serious brownie point gathering if he was ever going to placate June.

Roy waited impatiently for the police and they eventually turned up about an hour later. A rather attractive WPC slid lithely out of the panda car, showing a glimpse of black-stockinged thigh and Roy choked back the scathing greeting that he had planned.

‘Good morning Officer, my car has been broken into,’ he simpered.

‘Bad luck,’ she said. ‘You are the third I’ve dealt with this month, it’s those little bastards from the estate.’ She added sympathetically, ‘Have you lost much?’

‘My bloody golf clubs have gone,’ Roy heard himself wail.

‘Oh I’m sorry,’ she said and Roy felt better already.

All too soon she had gone and Roy drove slowly back to his house with the plastic bag rustling annoyingly. The rest of the day was consumed by phoning his insurance company on their twenty-four hour emergency hot-line and arranging for the window to be repaired when he should have been on the golf course. He was knackered by 5pm and he collapsed onto his sofa in front of the TV. He awoke three hours later with a very stiff neck and a raging thirst. He also realised he was starving as he hadn’t eaten all day. There was only one thing for it – a few pints down the Red Lion and a take-away.

Chapter 2

It was another dreary Friday afternoon and Roy sat at his desk reflecting on the events of the week. On the positive side, the insurance company had come through, and with unexpected speed, that morning he had received a letter promising a cheque for £200. He planned to go to the new golfing discount centre in Cardiff the next day to select a new set of clubs. He felt pretty excited about it but was not really sure what £200 would get him. He wondered whether he could afford some of the Ping irons that were all the rage in Abernant Golf Club. On the negative side, the season started next week and he would only have a week to practise with his new clubs. He bet that Nick Fold did not have to cope with such a challenge. Yesterday Tom had collared him on one of his visits to the shop-floor and had told him excitedly that he already had twelve names for the works’ golf day and could he arrange it for Friday April the twenty-third. They would like to play on a posh course in England and they were prepared to spend up to £30 on the day. Roy was a bit nonplussed by this development as he had never done anything like this before and didn’t really know where to start. Failure, of course, was not an option. Involuntarily he felt himself gripping the shaft of his trusty six iron a little bit tighter under his desk.

‘At least I’ve still got you,’ he whispered.

Joyce must have remarkable hearing for her age as she whispered back, ‘Of course you have, Wizz.’

Roy felt himself flushing violently and quickly made for the gents.

When he returned to his desk, Joyce was engrossed in her manicure and Roy was able to go back to his cogitation. He decided that he would go to the driving range after work and put the six iron through its paces. At least it would exercise his golfing muscles in readiness for the new Pings. He might ask the guy who looked after the range for some advice about golfing society days.

He glanced across at Hardacre who actually seemed to be working. Roy knew he was under a bit of pressure as the trial of his new system was tentatively planned for two weeks on Monday and there seemed to be any number of problems to solve. Roy also knew that he could have helped but Hardacre seemed to want to exclude him from the development. Roy wondered what it would mean for him and his job if the development was successful. Perhaps it was time to have a chat with Sunny about it, but there again, perhaps not. They hadn’t seen Sunny all day as he had been called to a meeting at Head Office in Leeds.

Five o’clock eventually arrived and Roy went to the locker room to change. This time it was into a T-shirt and jeans rather than his golfing finery. His lovely yellow Pringle was being attended to by his mum – if she couldn’t get the curry stains out nobody could!

Tom appeared as if by magic. ‘How’s the fucking golf day going, Wizz? You won’t fucking let us down will you?’ he growled.

‘It’s under control, Tom,’ he said with much more confidence than he actually felt and was mightily relieved when Tom grunted and disappeared again.

Roy drove to the Grove Driving Range with a lot on his mind. He had to get on with organising the golf day or his life expectancy would be much reduced. When he arrived there was no sign of the manager so he got a bucket of fifty balls from the machine and headed for his favourite booth with his six iron tucked under his arm. The same old man was there and he nodded a greeting.

‘How’s the back?’ he enquired.

Roy of course didn’t twig what he was talking about and was about to say so when it came back to him.

‘Oh much better, thanks,’ he spluttered. As his mother would have said, liars need good memories.

Roy swung the six iron a few times, it felt good in his hands. He wondered whether anyone was swinging its lost brothers and felt his anger rising. He put a ball down and tried to take his anger out on it. This, of course, as any golfer would tell you, never works and he topped the ball and it scuttled along the ground and stopped about thirty yards away.

‘Concentrate Roy,’ he said grimly.

The next two shots were as good as any he had ever hit soaring high in the air and dead straight.

‘I’ve cracked it,’ he said out loud with a complacent smile.

This proved to be an accurate assessment for as he was hitting the next shot the head of his club flew off and he was left holding the shaft. It took a little while for Roy to realise what had happened.

‘Bollocks!’ was all he could manage and he slumped on the bench in disbelief.

Eventually he stood up and headed for the exit. On the way out he gave the bucket with the remaining balls to the old man.

‘I’ve lost my head,’ he explained.

As he reached the reception he saw that the manager had returned and was greeting him with a cheery grin. He was about Roy’s age with blond hair and bright blue eyes and had a wiry build but looked a lot more athletic.

‘Good session?’ he enquired pleasantly.

Roy explained what had happened to his precious six iron and to the rest of his clubs. He was very sympathetic and asked whether Roy would like to borrow some clubs so that he could continue practising.

Roy politely declined and looked so depressed that the manager said, ‘You look like you could do with a drink. I’ll be finishing as soon as my relief comes in, let’s call in the Fountain for a quick one.’

Roy was about to say no but then thought that his mother would have said, Lightning never strikes twice in the same place, and said, ‘Good idea, my name is Roy, but everyone calls me Wizz.’

The manager introduced himself as Mike Atkinson and said that he was currently living in a rented flat in Abernant as he had recently moved up from Cardiff. A few minutes later the evening supervisor arrived and they headed off to the Fountain.

Roy bought the beers and vowed he would only be having two as he had to drive home. Memories of his last visit made him even more determined. They sat at a small table and Roy scanned the room. In the corner he saw a really attractive young blonde woman accompanied by a fit looking middle-aged man.

Lucky bastard, he thought. The girl looked vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place her.

‘Not bad,’ said Mike as he noticed where Roy’s eyes had landed.

‘Out of my league I’m afraid,’ replied Roy.

Conversation flowed easily as they got to know each other better but inevitably it turned to golf. Mike was a promising amateur golfer and played off a handicap of two and still dreamed of becoming a pro. He still played at a club in Cardiff but apparently there was major dispute about whether he could play in club competitions or whether he had professionalised himself by taking the job at the driving range. He could, however, still play county golf and enter amateur competitions, which made it all the more ridiculous.

‘Typical golf club politics,’ snorted Roy.

Roy told Mike about the insurance payment and asked whether Mike had any advice for him about new clubs. Mike suggested that he had a look for any special offers that were running and named a couple of brands that he should look out for.

‘When you’ve got your new clubs come down the range and I’ll give you a few tips,’ he offered.

Roy was delighted with this and said, ‘Thanks Mike, I need all the help I can get. My heart is set on bloody winning something this season.’

Roy then raised his thorny problem with the firm’s golf day out. Mike said that he could help as his brother was the professional at Parkford Golf Club in the Forest of Dean. He took the date and said that he would ring his brother the next day. Roy felt quite pleased with himself and started to believe that his luck had turned. He glanced over at the blonde and thought he detected a glimmer of a smile. His luck might have turned but that would need a bloody miracle!

Suddenly the door of the bar crashed open and three burly looking men burst in dragging two young lads with them.

‘We just caught these little bastards trying to break into a car in the car park,’ shouted one.

‘Time we taught them a lesson they’ll never fucking forget,’ cried another.

Roy and Mike stared open-mouthed at this and could sense a feeling of anger welling up in the bar. It was like a lynching mob and the lads were absolutely terrified.

‘Christ, they’re going to fucking kill the poor bastards,’ cried Roy forgetting that a week ago he would have quite comfortably put the noose around their necks.

The man with the blonde stood up and calmly walked over to the men and said in a very authoritative tone, ‘I’m a police officer, let the lads go.’

It was clear that he would stand no nonsense and the startled men let the lads go. The lads made for the door.

‘Sit down you two,’ he ordered and the lads obeyed reluctantly.

Roy saw that the blonde had also got up and was now standing by the door and it suddenly dawned on him that she was the WPC that had interviewed him last Saturday morning. The policeman instructed the landlord to ring the police and mention that Sergeant Davies needed assistance. A little old man who had been sat at the bar rushed over to the lads and head-butted one of them before anyone could react.

‘Sit down you old fool, before you find yourself in trouble too,’ yelled Sergeant Davies.

The old man said, ‘I had to fucking do that, the bastards have broken into my bloody car twice in the last three months,’ and went back to his seat at the bar.

Roy took the opportunity to sidle up to the WPC and simpered, ‘Is there anything we can do to help, Officer?’

‘Everything is under control, thank you sir, please return to your seat,’ she said sternly but Roy saw that there was a little twinkle in her eye.

He dutifully returned to his seat convincing himself that he might be in with a chance in the right circumstances.

Ten minutes later the police arrived and took over. Statements were taken and the two lads were driven away to the police station. Roy could not help thinking a good hiding would probably have done more good than the lads getting off with a warning. He had overheard one of the policemen greeting the WPC as Beth, so now he knew her name– but would he ever see her again? It seemed to be a good time to leave so he stood up.

‘Mike, I’d better get off, thanks for your help,’ he said.

‘It was nothing Roy, I’ve enjoyed your company, maybe we can do it again sometime. If you give me your number I will give you a ring on Sunday about Parkford,’ Mike replied.

Roy scribbled his number on a beer mat and gave it to Mike and the two walked out into the car park. As they walked out Roy heard the little old man crowing, ‘Did you see me? I fucking showed them.’

Roy drove back to his house mulling over the happenings of the evening in his mind. It had been very successful: he had a new golf coach, he might have solved the golf society problem and he had met the girl of his dreams.

‘Don’t be so bloody stupid, Roy, she’s out of your league,’ he muttered.

Roy got up early the next morning. He was feeling excited, like a kid on Christmas morning, waiting to open his presents. He had decided to set off early for Cardiff to avoid the Saturday morning shoppers’ traffic. It was normally only a forty-five minute drive and the golf discount store was on the outskirts of Cardiff. The journey was uneventful and he managed to find the store without too many problems. He parked in the car park and rushed to the door, but to his dismay it was locked. There was a sign with the opening times and he read, ‘Saturday 9.30am to 6.30pm.’ He looked at his watch – it was 9.05 so he would have to contain his excitement for another twenty-five minutes. All the windows were covered by shutters so he couldn’t even see in to get a preview. Fortunately, there was a café across the road and he decided to partake in a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea while he waited. Time seemed to pass even more slowly than it did on a Friday afternoon at work but eventually he saw a car pull up outside the store and five minutes later the shutters were up.

In his haste, Roy almost got knocked over as he crossed the road but even the blaring horn and the obligatory V-sign could not upset him. He went into the store, it was huge and for Roy it was like entering Aladdin’s cave. There were golf clubs and other golf equipment everywhere.

‘Where do I bloody start?’ he muttered.

He decided to take a stroll around the whole store before doing anything hasty. This took around half an hour and just left Roy thoroughly confused. A shop assistant came over to him and asked whether he could help. Roy explained what he was after and mentioned the brands that Mike had suggested.

‘It’s your lucky day sir, we have some cracking deals on at the moment,’ he said and guided Roy to a nice looking set of clubs.

Roy picked up the six iron and it felt good.

‘Jack Nicklaus Golden Bear – now we’re talking,’ he said to himself.

‘Would you like to try them in the net, sir?’ said the assistant.

‘Yes please,’ said Roy.

They went over to the net and Roy managed to make contact with a few plastic golf balls with the six iron. It felt good but how did he know if it was right for him?

‘Could I try something else to compare, please?’ he asked.

Half an hour later, Roy had tried about seven different sets of clubs and had to confess he was none the wiser. They all felt slightly different but which was the right one? He thought he had better broach the subject of price, which was obviously going to be a big factor in his final decision. The assistant went through the prices and this ruled out quite a few sets, including the Pings.

‘What’s the best deal?’ begged Roy, feeling helpless and leaving himself wide open to the salesman’s patter.

‘Well I think the best deal for you would be the Golden Bears, I can do you two to nine iron plus two wedges and three woods for £220.’

‘That’s a bit rich,’ said Roy.

The assistant said, ‘I shouldn’t really do this, but I tell you what, I will throw in a bag and putter for you as well.’

Roy was on the edge of desperation so agreed to the deal, hoping fervently that he was doing the right thing.

‘I will have them ready for you by next Friday,’ he heard the assistant say as if it was part of a dream.

Roy felt disappointed. He had expected to be taking the clubs back with him that day so that he could get some practice in before the first competition next Saturday.

‘I can’t go through any more of this torment,’ he murmured and paid the bill.

As he left Cardiff, Roy noted a lot of traffic going the other way. Of course, he thought, Wales are playing England today! People were streaming into Cardiff to watch the game in the pubs even though it was actually being played in Twickenham. There was a time when this would have been the most important day of the year for him but his priorities seemed to have changed.

‘Am I becoming obsessed with golf?’ he wondered aloud.

As if in answer to that question, all the way back to Abernant, Roy agonised about whether he had done the right thing. This decision could be make or break for him and his bid to win a golf competition. He reassured himself with the thought that the greatest golfer who had ever lived would not put his name on a pile of crap.

Eventually, he got back to his house and thought that he had better do some housework as there were clear signs that he was actually living in a bit of a pigsty. In theory, he had two bedrooms but one was fast becoming a no go area. He glanced inside the spare bedroom and quickly shut the door promising that he would deal with that later. He stripped the bedclothes off his own bed and replaced them with a new duvet cover, pillowcases and sheet that were still in their original packaging. The colour scheme was very garish and not really his taste but he had got them cheap in the January sales. He gathered up some dirty clothes that were strewn around his bedroom and put everything into the duvet case. This meant a trip to the laundrette but that would have to wait. He hated going to the laundrette but was never really sure why. All it involved was putting the washing into a machine and going across the road to the Red Lion and having a pint. Once he had finished his pint, he would go back to the laundrette and transfer everything to the drier then go back to the pub for another pint. Back to the laundrette to reclaim his laundry, one more pint for luck and then the short walk home. It doesn’t