Chapter 34
The Crazy Golf Course
As low paid summer jobs went it was one of the best. All our Fair One had to do was open up the crazy golf course mid-morning, put the flags out for each of the holes, tidy up a bit, collect his float from the admin offices, and wait for his punters. And there were very few punters. The punters that there were tended to be pretty low maintenance. The local herberts had better things to do than hang around the crazy golf course. So generally our Fair One sat in a deck chair, outside his little hut, with a straw trilby perched on his head, sandals on his feet, khaki shorts and sloppy joe t-shirt on, doing very little except reading some good books and watching the world go by. There are worse ways to pass a summer.
We went down once or twice during those few weeks, and it all seemed pretty idyllic. The Fair One never looked better. He was burned bronze from all the time sitting out in the sun, and he’d been working his way through a pile of Maigret novels he’d picked up in a charity shop. All seemed well with his world. Or so it should have been. But the few days I spent with him found our Fair One a trifle distrait. Oh it wasn’t anything glaringly obvious. It was just, oh I don’t know, walking along the front early one morning from Tankerton to Whitstable and back to Herne Bay and the crazy golf course he seemed a little detached and pre-occupied. I didn’t wish to pry, and I suspected it was simply a reluctance to give up this idyll and head back to suburbia. That would have been fair enough. But something wasn’t right. Our Fair One was famed for what in our more pretentious moments we might call his mansuetude. Very little got to him. But he was brooding about something.
As we walked I saw a group of young girls. Very continental girls. Waving. Smiling. Trying to attract our attention. This was not unusual where our Fair One was concerned. What was unusual was that no sly smile was sneaking irresistibly across our Fair One’s fine features. Ah, I said, those would be girls from the language school I take it? What’s that, said our Fair One eventually. The girls, I said. The ones waving and smiling beguiling. There! I turned his head in their direction. Oh right, said our Fair One. Tell me, I said to our Fair One. The girl you were seeing last time we spoke. What was her name? Ana Lucia? You haven’t mentioned her. The Fair One stopped, stood looking out to sea, and slowly turned to me, shrugging his shoulders. Right-o kiddo, I said, taking him by the shoulders. Time to tell me all about it! Okay, it’s like this, he said finally when we had found a bench along the front to sit on. He still wouldn’t look at me, and it was impossible to see what was going on behind his shades, but I could hazard a guess. Ana Lucia, he went on. She’s the single most important thing in my life. She means the world to me, but ...
It turned out that the big but in our Fair One’s world was to do with Ana Lucia’s sister. They were both over here from Barcelona, spending a summer learning English, and a lot more, at a language school. The Fair One had met Ana Lucia during the course of his arduous duties on the Crazy Golf Course. And it was love at first sight. Our boy was so smitten with his Spanish rose it was untrue. He’d do anything for her. Anything she asked. Turned out she did ask. Her sister. Slightly younger. Slightly wilder. She’d gone and got herself in a spot of bother. No, not that. Not quite. It was just that some of the girls at the language had gone and got talked into going along and doing a bit of what they called glamour modelling for a bit of pin money and a bit of fun. Now in the cold light of day. Well, she was as scared as hell. Terrified what would happen if her proud, protective dad found out. Indeed. Now, apparently, Ana Lucia thought our Fair One would save the day. Ah.
So what’s the big deal maestro, I said? You track the guys down. Burst in on them in their lair. Kick a few doors in. Throw a few chairs around. Bust a few skulls. Grab all the negatives. And you’re out of there. Nobody’s any the wiser. And everyone lives happily ever after. Simple eh? The Fair One just looked at me. It’s not as simple as that, he said eventually. If the guys involved were the sleazy, nasty leeches they are in stories, everything would be straight forward. But these are just photographers, he said. Oh right, I bit back. Just photographers. Taking advantage of young girls who barely speak English. Hardly cricket is it? At this our Fair One actually laughed. It’s funny you should say that, he said. I went with Ana Lucia to speak to them. And they were pretty reasonable, but said business is business. We can sell you the negatives, they said. But we’ve no money, we said. Oh well, we’re sporting people, they said, we’ll play you for them.
I looked at our Fair One, and said what on earth does that mean? Simply what it says, said our Fair One. I’ve got to go and see them at midday, and name my pleasure. I laughed incredulously. Sounds like they’ve been reading too much Flashman, I said, but what are you going to do? I don’t know, said our Fair One. I just don’t know. These are genuine sportsmen. You name it. They play it. Poker. Cricket. Snooker. Golf. Like real people. I may be good at football, but what are going to do? Play three-and-in? No, my good Autodidact, this is crazy. And the worst part is I’m going to have to confess to Ana Lucia that I’m a failure. The only thing she’s ever asked me to do for her. It’s crazy. All of a sudden, a light bulb came on above my head in the best comic strip tradition. That’s it, I said. Crazy golf. There’s your answer. Turning towards our Fair One I saw that sly smile sneaking irresistibly across his fine features.
Come midday I went with our Fair One to see the sporting gents and spell out our terms. They weren’t impressed. That was plain enough. But they were big enough to agree to the deal. Three rounds of crazy golf. A fair way of sorts. The winner takes all. Seconds chosen and briefed. I would act for our Fair One. Hands were shaken. And so we said our farewells until the following morn when all would be decided. That evening we went with Ana Lucia and her kid sister for an early fish and chip supper in Whitstable, where the fish was so fresh it practically winked at us. Then back to the caravan to listen to some jazz tapes I’d put together. Nothing heavy. Horace Silver, Lee Morgan, Mark Murphy, Cannonball Adderley. But it worked.
The following morning the sun was as they say shining brighter than Doris Day, and we were up with the lark. The Fair One had gone off for a walk with Ana Lucia. It seemed wrong to intrude on their time together, so I sat and read a while before meeting up with them at the crazy golf course. I noticed with approval that our Fair One was wearing a bead necklace Ana Lucia had made for him. So the scene was set for our chivalric contest. Ten o’clock sharp the enemy hove into sight, and before too long we were ready for kick off or whatever. The photographer was obviously a serious golfer, decked out in his Pringles and diamonds, and was seriously struggling with the idea of playing crazy golf. Grrr! Kids’ stuff. That was the sort of thing he was muttering under his breath. Lest you think our Fair One had something of an unfair advantage it is worth pointing out that to this day he swears he had not so much as set foot on the fairway all the time he was minding the crazy golf course that summer.
It was tense. It was tight. It was thrilling. It was terrifyingly close. One each and all to play for in the final frame. Or something. The beauty of the crazy golf course being the chosen battlefield meant that an element of chance entered into the game. So with the sands slipping away, it all seemed to rest on the final hole. And in a suitably quixotic twist of fate this was one of those holes with a bit of a hump and a rickety windmill. The photographer found fate conspiring against him, and one exquisite putt hit one of the windmill’s sails and the ball was sent soaring. Our Fair One in response sent a delicate chip sailing through the door of the windmill and on through to the lip of the final hole. He couldn’t miss, and didn’t. The photographer sportingly conceded defeat, and handed over the offending negatives before disappearing with a parting shot about there being plenty more fish in the sea. Our Fair One checked the negatives were what they should be, taking care not to pay too close attention, before handing them over with a bow to Ana Lucia and a wink to her kid sister. Me? Well, in the spirit of the occasion, I decided discretion was the better part of valour, and so disappeared back to the big black smoke, leaving them to their celebrations.
©
2008 John Carney
Illustration ©
2008 Alistair Fitchett