Bowled Over

Bowled Over Chapter 1– Murder - Zen and the art of lawn bowls.

‘Oyez Oyez, listen carefully. We have word that the enemy are just minutes away. It is up to us, this small, dysfunctional, fearless band, to fight with all our might against adversity today. I hope you are all ready to do whatever you have to do, to win the battle today. It will be a tough first blooding for John. Albert and Bill will need to dig deep into your reserves and Sylvie will need to conjure up some blood curdling battle cries but we will all vow to do our best won’t we?’

‘Yes Sir, Captain Henry.’ Replied the troops.

‘There they are.’ said Henry, pointing, as a large white vehicle pulled up outside the entrance to the park with sign writing on the back denoting it’s home town of Bristol.

From the clubhouse the bus was dwarfed by the massive cross channel ferry which was docked in the adjacent harbour, the centrepiece of the town. From here three ferries a day crossed to and fro between France and Portsea. Henry walked down the path proudly with beard bristling and blazer buttons gleaming to greet the visitors as they descended wearily from the steps of the bus.

‘Hello I’m Henry the club Captain; lovely to meet you all please follow me.’ He said putting on a fake limp to throw the opposition a bum steer and leading them back through the gate to the beautifully manicured green.

Henry returned like the triumphal leader of a jungle expedition as the totally white clad visitors with an assortment of headgear traced his steps, single file past the sponsoring funeral directors sign to the clubhouse. Like some line of baby swans to the slaughter they were greeted one by one by the home team members of the Portsea Bowling club.

A sign of a decrepit old bowler on the chalkboard welcomed the opposition team to the field of battle.

‘Now those are your exotic visitor’s dressing rooms at the back there, ladies on the left and gents on the right. If your captain would like to see me for the rinks, we are in good time and ready to start at two on the dot.’ Said Henry, the self-important bearded Captain, swinging his pocket watch back into his blazer.

‘Where’s Albert, we need his rink subs money?’ asked Henry.

‘No idea. I am sure I saw him earlier.’ replied Sylvie in her thick Scottish accent. Just then a piercing scream came from the depths of the clubhouse. Suddenly one of the visiting ladies team came running out of the door screaming.

‘There is a man in the ladies changing room toilets.’

Chapter 2

‘You don’t think it is Albert, do you?’ said Henry heading that way followed by Mel. It was fitting that Henry had been both a brain surgeon and later the local G.P. making him best suited to the scene he was about to experience. In the second toilet cubicle was Albert, slumped on the floor beside his bowl, cleaning cloth in hand, swimming in a pool of blood from a serious head wound.

Henry soon ascertained that he was no longer alive and called the ambulance and police before closing the cubicle door and returning to the green to make an announcement.

‘I am afraid there has been a bit of a mishap but I think we should continue the game until the authorities arrive and then see what they say. Unfortunately, Albert won’t be joining us on the green today, but he wasn’t that good anyway so we have our young reserve Luke to make up the numbers.’ Although Henry and Mel bravely returned to their rinks and the match commenced, word quickly spread among the teams that Albert was not some peeping Tom in the ladies but a not very good bowls player who was now very deceased.

They were playing six rinks of triples with three woods each so there were soon around 36 people out on the beautifully manicured green. It was one of the very finest in the county and was built by the Canadian soldiers after the war to replace the one that was destroyed in the wartime militarisation of the harbour. Many of the Canadians also fathered a generation of locals during their wartime exploits.

The original Portsea Bowling club actually predated the formation of the English Bowls Association in 1903, well over a hundred years ago. Recently; membership numbers had dwindled to around fifty but those members that remained were very passionate about the sport, some had played for seventy years.

John; the newcomer was personally coming on quite well at bowls since joining the club a few weeks earlier. He was teamed up with Jenny the coach and Henry the club captain and ex brain surgeon whose bushy grey beard could easily have been home to a family of sparrows and field mice if one would care to inspect too closely. There were definitely the remains of his breakfast on display, egg and beans could clearly be seen nestling in the wire wool. Jenny was number one which meant she had to position the mat and roll the jack the length she or the skipper liked and then bowl her three woods at the jack. Then it would be John’s turn to try to do what the skipper was asking with his three woods, alternating with his opposite number before the skip played the final three and hopefully won us the end.

Doctor Henry was many times larger than life. He spoke with a refined accent but looked like the most eccentric mad professor you ever saw. As a brain surgeon, he had seen inside more skulls than a maggot and treated more patients in his eighty or so years than most do in two lifetimes. He had learned that it’s not what’s outside that counts but what’s inside.

His long straggly grey hair and beard reminded one of an ancient Chinese Monk and his knowledge of the game of bowls was equally legendary.

One thing he had learned to do was never to take fools prisoner not to waste the precious moments he had left, with people who could never quite come up to his standards.

There was so much to learn for a new novice like John but it was a great time filler on a glorious British Summer afternoon with like-minded people who were all playing just for the fun of it. They were a whole new set of friends for John since he left his last set of friends behind in the Midlands. Down here on the coast they knew nothing about John, nor his past and all treated him with friendship and camaraderie and equality. John sometimes wished he had never bought that lottery ticket on a whim when he was still trolling along in that little warehouse job like he had for over twenty years. It was the best and worst thing that had happened to his life. It may not have been so bad if it had just been a small win instead of the record-breaking amount on the Euromillions which try as he might he could never spend.

The last couple of months since splashing out that £10 at the local spar when John was getting a couple of bottles of beer to wash down the Lidl’s Thai curry since the win have been a total blur. First there was the elation of the win and the champagne and 5-star hotels. Then; within weeks John’s wife of 20 years had run off to Benidorm with Manuel, an Argentinean tango and fitness instructor from Bolton half her age and now with half of John’s money.

Then so-called BF best forever friends scammed him out of another tenth of the fortune on failed or ridiculous business investments and loans. John should have known that shares in that vibrating condom were never going to go up. Bodily fluids and electricity have never mixed well. He spent another tenth on personal transportation, some of which he didn’t really need like the helicopter he couldn’t fly (yet) and the 1935 gentleman’s motor cruising boat, the MV Bluebell, which although beautiful was a money pit.

John looked over at her berthed nicely in the harbour just across from the bowling green. She had already broken down twice and needed the lifeboat to rescue her hence my hefty donation to that and other charities. The Bluebell was probably worth half the £50,000 John paid for it but the difference of £25k was probably well less than his weekly interest earned on his capital so it was an affordable whim.

In fact, on average John was making around £6575 daily from the remaining millions which he had invested in sensible mid-range stocks and try as he might he was having trouble spending even the £575 a day let alone the six thousand.

This was all before John got slightly sensible and spent a tenth on his beautiful cliff top house with helipad on the grass roof. It slightly resembled a cross between a hobbit and a telly tubby house but inside was state of the art and the whole cliff side was wall to wall 180 degrees panoramic glass view of the beautiful English Channel. It was from here he would try to rebuild his new life; secretly from the others in the bowls club who thought he was living in a park home in a nearby holiday park.

They may think it unusual that he always turns up to roll ups in a classic Ferrari but nobody had dared to ask (yet). Perhaps they think he won it in a raffle. John was still collecting second hand bowling clothes and using a set of borrowed woods so he wasn’t giving them the millionaire look (yet).

They had their warm up practise ends and then Jenny; John’s lead suddenly looked round to check he was watching her. Her stern stare was enough to instil discipline in the most deviant of deviants. After all she had been filling the inmates at the local prison with fear all her life.

She was completely anal in her approach to the game in the attempt to eliminate all variables and to get into what she called the perfect groove when every movement was without fault. Having said that; she was not the best lady bowler in the club which infuriated her. She was not even better than Sonia who had only been playing a year and was currently still classified as a girl although transitioning to a boy which has caused some confusion in the changing rooms.

Sometime the decision must be made to move her permanently to the men’s camp which also confused and worried Henry, the club captain as currently he entered her as whichever orientation, he needed to make up the numbers.

Jenny’s first wood curved out well and stayed out finishing some nine feet to the right and short of the smaller white target jack which led to the skipper making a semi rude hand gesture. Her third bowl was the closest at around a metre to four feet and also holding shot which was the term for nearest to the Jack. ‘John, John.’ She barked shaking him out of his dream, looking across to the harbour to a dream of MV Bluebell ploughing through the azure waters and picturesque islands of the Caribbean. Shaken into reality John set himself up for the shot. Aiming a little off to the right in order to find his curve through to the jack he balanced himself and let go from just above the ground making sure to keep one foot on or above the mat swinging his arm through.

It was his first competitive shot and a beauty but rather powerful. It was going to take time to find the right weight to bowl the ball. As if by magic, it collected the small white target Jack and drove it along with my wood into the end ditch. Now in many games this would be disaster but as John’s bowl had touched the Jack, both the jack and his wood were live and counting and he was holding one shot. The skippers marked the relative positions of the out of sight Jack and the live Wood with wooden markers and sprayed chalk on the bowl to mark it as live.

As John returned Raquel his opposite number 2 was applauding and gave him a big kiss like she did when we first greeted. It was on the lips but there were no tongues (yet). The excitement (of the shot) sent a shiver down John’s spine. Hardly any moments since winning the lottery had filled him with so much pure joy as playing a fine shot in front of a few old people on a beautiful afternoon in August. Raquel was next up and a sprightly Octogenarian with a rustic West Country accent. Even though she had a special lifting apparatus she was still having some difficulty bending to pick up her woods. As she did, she looked at John and whispered.

‘Stiff back, Years of sex.’ He smiled sweetly at her bravado. She swung her arm and let go from the waist and the wood stopped short of the ditch but John was still holding his one. As John bent down to collect his next wood in preparation to bowl, he felt a cheeky pinch on the backside. John wasn’t expecting sexual harassment on the bowling green, especially from someone old enough to be his grandmother. John yelped in playful abandon.

John’s next wood was sent off the other way on what is known as the backhand, it stopped just short of the ditch and next nearest the jack so John was personally holding two.

Raquel was ready and bowled her wood to follow his backhand but again pulled up short. One more stoop later and one more bum pinch and John was bowling his last wood to follow the second one down the backhand side and once again it ended up near the jack and the ditch holding him three shots.

Raquel’s final wood ran into a pack of woods from the number ones and somewhat blocked everyone’s route to the head.

John was holding three shots and even the stern Jenny could not help to applaud him with her massive tattooed forearms. They were off to a flying start so long as their skip didn’t spoil things. After some discussion and deliberation everyone had managed to walk unaided to the other end of the rink to watch the two skippers settle the score for the first end.

Henry’s beard bristled in the wind as he wound up his arm and released his wood into a pack of others. John’s mind did a momentary double take as he imagined him posing naked for the life study class which he did on Wednesday nights. The opposition skipper tried to smash his way through to make an open route to the jack but ended up missing everything and in the ditch with a foul shot. Henry this time managed to get his wood close enough to the jack to get the fourth shot. The last three woods went nowhere and the end was over with John’s woods all scoring along with Henry’s one to put them in a commanding 4-0 lead.

What a buzz. The opposition number one Robert took down what looked like a converted Zimmer frame on supermarket trolley wheels as it was the loser’s job to collect up all the woods. He soon whisked them up and they were underway again for our second end.

Now a word or two of explanation on the simple jargon of bowls.

Jack = the small white or yellow balls that you aim to get near to.

Woods = the Balls or bowls.

Green = the playing area.

Rinks = the strips that the green is divided into normally 6.

Head = the area round the jack where the scoring takes place.

Ends = directions of play.

So, as you can imagine it’s fairly easy to get Jack’s Wood up your head end or worse. That’s enough of the boring detailed stuff. It’s clearly going to take John years to comprehend the finer points of the game just suffice it to say the nearest woods to the jack win points. The team with most points wins the match.

John found it wonderful to see the passion that these old timers still have for the game and the passion they still have for life. Raquel didn’t stop trying to put him off his game with her innuendos.

If only she was fifty years younger, she would make a great life companion thought John. Even at her age she could share some magic times with a youngster.

The teams continued pitting their wits against the woods and their body’s ability to control them for another nine ends. It occurred to John several times that it all seemed so normal, perhaps there was often a fatality at a match day. If not a bludgeoning with a wood maybe a poisoning of the opposition’s tea or cream cakes or just an age-related seizure. In a way it must be useful to have a retired doctor as your club captain. Poor Albert; perhaps he wasn’t a good player but he surely must have a family and friends who will miss him. Perhaps they will dedicate one of the seats around the green, or a cup to his untimely death.

As they neared the end of the ninth end a sweet bell rang at the club house signifying it was time for tea. John’s team finished their end and John put up the score of twelve to them, the home side and just three to the opposition before they trouped into the clubhouse with a healthy lead under their belt.

Across the estuary the humming of the ferry was rumbling across the green as it sat awaiting its cargo before returning across the channel to France.

The Portsea Bowls hut was the epitome of an underwhelming shed of the year. It stood as if grafted on to the white chalk cliffs overlooking the river mouth. It was a living building which has erupted like some wart from the coloured walls of a beach hut.

Inside; the smell of 100-year-old socks was infused into the walls and distilled with ancient salty timbers rescued from ancient wrecks. On the walls ancient roll of honours paid homage to long dead bowlers who’s names were still hallowed on trophies. Such trophies lined the walls along with badges from all around the world.

In one corner was a makeshift bar named the Wick Inn. In another corner was a rail of long outdated bowls clothing almost from the history of the club. Most of the whites had given way to yellow around the edges at least.

In another corner was a bric a brac table full of items which last saw light of day from the fifties.

Finding their table marked with their rink number everyone sat down and continued to chat. Raquel told John how she was impressed with his one month’s play. She had been playing for thirty years and took pride to say that she was once a county ranking player.

The paramedics and police were clearly still in the ladies away changing room sorting out the mess.

The taped off door and occasional flashes alerted all to the investigation of the crime scene.

Chapter 3

Everyone put their money in for the raffle £1 for 4 strips, everything had been streamlined over the years to make and save money. The special strips of cloakroom tickets were encapsulated in strips and reusable, having also been sponsored by the local funeral director. Oh, they knew a captive audience. On the wall were adverts for the mobility shops and all care services required by the old. On the other hand, here, it was amazing the range of ailments which were no hindrance to playing bowls. There were even lifting arms, wheelchairs and bowling arms and walking stick ends designed to make the game truly accessible to all.

At least John thought that nobody was trying to tap him up, for a loan or investment (yet). Nobody seemed to bat an eyelid to his only visible extravagance of his cars (or cruiser) (yet). Although he could literally do anything with the amount of money he had, he was content for now to bide his time with these wonderful new friends and wait to see where his life would take him.

Little did he know that fate seemed to have other ideas, but for now the tea and crab paste sandwiches were perfect. Being on the captain’s table seemed to also come with some privileges but not until after one of the policemen came out to whisper something to Henry staying clear of the creatures in his beard.

The tea cupcakes though beautifully presented did come with a strangely herby flavour. John was happy to eat them and even happier after. Suddenly Henry smashed down a gavel on the table to call the hubbub to order.

‘Right I would like to welcome you all here today to this wonderful tour match and thank our Bristol friends for making it all this way. Unfortunately, there was a little incident before the game as you may know and police would like to take statements after but suffice it to say please do not run off after the game without talking to them. Unless you are the murderer of course in which case you had better jump on the ferry quick. Albert was not a great bowler, in fact he was a bloody liability but he was a fun guy, a bit like a mushroom actually better in complete dark. None of us are really sure why he joined and he would never have coaching or practice. Perhaps it was so he could get a key to the club house so he could bring ladies of the night here. Anyway, we will miss him very much when we are short of numbers. Now I would like to thank Ethel and Dennis for the teas, big round of applause please, especially for those special cupcakes. We always play better after them. By the way today’s forfeit for wrong bias is £1 per occurrence into the charity box for the tortoise hospital.

Well played everyone so far, I think on a quick look the scores seem on a knife edge. I would like to present our Bristol visitors today with something very special.

Some clubs have pennants, some have plaques. Well you may have noticed that crabs are our emblem so we have crab pots.’ From under the table Henry produced a well-used crab pot with a nice brass plate announcing from Portsea Bowling club with the club coat of arms, a fishing boat and some balls, I mean woods. He passed it across to Eric the opposition captain extricating some of his straggly beard from it as he went.

‘So now over to our opposition Captain Eric for a few words.’

‘Well thank you so much Henry for this amazing and unusual commemorative piece. I know it will be the talking point in our clubhouse if nothing else for its smell. I am sorry to hear of your member Albert who was taken unwell.

I would also like to thank the tea people for their excellent job and a big round of applause to them.

As I said I hope your members will all be well soon. You are giving us a good game and we are thoroughly enjoying ourselves. I would normally tell a joke about a man who goes to the doctors but it may be a little irreverent.’

‘No go on.’ Shouted someone in the audience. ‘

Well I was inspired by the raffle prize of the punnet of wonderful strawberries. A man goes to the doctors and says Doctor I have some strawberries stuck up my back side. Never mind said the Doctor. I can give you a prescription for some cream for that.’ There was a droll round a laughter and applause. ‘Now time for the raffle.’ There was an ooh of anticipation around the room.

‘First prize is number 116.’ Raquel excitedly thrust up her arm to a big round of applause. ‘Get me the booze will you lovvie.’ She said blowing a kiss to John. He selected the bottle of sherry and returned it to her picking out the next number on the way. ‘Next is 88 – two fat ladies.’ Jenny raised her hand. ‘Oh, I was half right.’ Said Henry.

‘Come and select your prize Jenny. There’s a shaving mirror here if you’d like it to keep your stubble down.’ Jenny selected a perfume set obviously unwanted from someone’s Christmas gifts of ten years ago.

‘Well done Jenny at least the ladies changing room might start to smell a bit fresher for a while.’

Jenny was a cross between a rowdy Rottweiler and an aggressive coach (coach vehicle not teacher) driver. Her simple tattoos were built on muscles which were built on layers of muscle. Although she was a woman there were little traces left of femininity, they had been battered and tweezered out of her by years of working with violent ‘lady’ prisoners. She would even be considered cruel by medieval torturers but she got results.

If you were on her bad side your life would hardly worth living.

The raffle prizes seemed to be an interesting mix of alcohol, purpose bought jokey items, allotment vegetables and jumble bric-a-brac.

‘Next is all the trees 333, anyone got 333.’ One of the opposition put up their hand to a round of applause. ‘A wise choice the deluxe toilet brush. It’s not the first time it’s been won but Ethel couldn’t get on with it and has gone back to using toilet paper. Next, don’t get too excited ladies its soixante neuf 69 and yes, we have a winner. It’s Bill.’

Slowly Bill straightened his body to his full height an adjusted his bow tie before setting off for the prize table.

‘This could take some time so I will call the next number, One Hundred and eighty. One eighty anyone. And Bill has selected the tin of prunes and ecxlax. Apologies to all those who live in his area. One eighty looks like it’s one of the delightful visiting ladies.’

‘I’m Maggie.’ Shouted back the winner as she made her way for the strawberries.

‘So apparently Eric has some cream he can share with you there Maggie.’

Just then Bill who was by the door began frothing at the mouth and choking holding his neck before stumbling outside the clubhouse clasping his prunes and collapsing on the path.

‘Can you get the paramedics to check him over please?’ said Henry. The paramedics were soon with him and trying to ascertain his problem.

‘Just two more prizes and this one is a job lot of two items for legs eleven. Another of our visiting ladies well done. Err Cissie. A fine pair of legs you have too and deserving of those support tights and misshaped biscuits and the last prize goes to three little ducks Quack Quack Quack 222. Oh, that’s John here and he gets the exfoliating mitt. Careful how you use it. I had one once and look at me.’

Wow John thought, he had actually won a prize. It really was his lucky day but then he thought of his last big lucky win he had and quickly passed the mitt to Raquel as a gift which she seemed unduly delighted with.

‘So that concludes the raffle ladies and gentlemen so it’s back to the green to round off this thrilling match which is so very tightly balanced. See you back on the green.

In no time at all, everyone was trouping back out of the changing room. The paramedics had parcelled Bill up and were disappearing with him on the stretcher through the gate and Ethel the tea lady had quickly stepped up to fill his position. She used to be quite a bowler but since her husband’s incapacitation they had both relegated themselves to tea duty. She quickly slipped on an overlarge skirt from the sale rail and an over-tight blouse but in adversity one had to do what was necessary. Most importantly her shoes were totally flat soles although a little brighter than match shoes they would suffice for this friendly.

Ethel was one of the younger ones and still quite sprightly in her late sixties / early seventies. Her husband Dennis was confined to an electric buggy for any great distances but he could stand long enough to help with teas and sandwiches. He too had been a good bowler in his day and his mind went back to when the couple had freshly retired on health grounds but were still making county competitions.

‘The washing up will have to wait.’ she said as she passed Dennis on the way out of the changing room into the bright sunlight. As she stepped onto the green, she said a prayer for Bill and Albert and rubbed the embroidered name Jules on her borrowed shirt. It was the name of her old friend Julia Gravesbrook, recently deceased. She wore her shirt proudly once again into the fray,

‘Come on you beauties.’ She said as she took up position