And Thereby Hangs a Tale

“Superb, quite superb,” declared Sidney, digging into a leg. After a second mouthful he added, “But then, Sybil, everyone knows you’re the finest cook in Southend.”

Sybil beamed with satisfaction, even though her husband had paid her the same compliment every Christmas Day for the past eighteen years.

Only snippets of conversation passed between the Chapman family as they dug contentedly into their well-filled plates. It wasn’t until second helpings had been served that Sidney addressed them again.

“It’s been another capital year for Chapman’s Cleaning Services,” he declared as he emptied the gravy boat over the second leg, “even if I do say so myself.” The rest of the family didn’t comment, as they were well aware that the chairman had only just begun his annual speech to the shareholders.

“The company enjoyed a record turnover, and declared slightly higher profits than last year,” said Sidney, placing his knife and fork on his plate, “despite the Chancellor of the Exchequer, in his wisdom, raising taxes to fifteen percent,” he added solemnly. Sidney didn’t like Mr. Lloyd George’s coalition government. He wanted the Conservatives to return to power and bring stability back to the country. “And what’s more,” Sidney continued, nodding in the direction of his older son, “Robin is to be congratulated on passing his Higher Certificate. Southend Grammar School has done him proud,” he added, raising a glass of sherry that the boy wouldn’t be allowed to sample for another year. “We can only hope that young Malcolm”—he turned his attention to the other side of the table—“will, in time, follow in his brother’s footsteps. And talking of following in another’s footsteps, when the school year is over I look forward to welcoming Robin into the firm where he will begin work as an apprentice, just as I did thirty-six years ago.” Sidney raised his glass a second time. “Let us never forget the company’s motto: ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness.’”

This was the signal that the annual speech had come to an end, which was always followed by Sidney rolling a cigar lovingly between his fingers. He was just about to light up when Sybil said firmly, “Not until after you’ve had your Christmas pudding, dear.”

Sidney reluctantly placed the cigar back on the table as Sybil disappeared into the kitchen.

She reappeared a few moments later, carrying a large Christmas pudding which she placed in the center of the table. Once again, Sidney rose to conduct the annual ceremony. He slowly uncorked a bottle of brandy that had not been touched since the previous year, poured a liberal amount over the burned offering, then lit a match and set light to the pudding as if he were a high priest performing a pagan sacrifice. Little blue flames spluttered into the air and were greeted by a round of applause.

Once second helpings had been devoured and Sidney had lit his cigar, the boys became impatient to pull their crackers and discover what treasures awaited them.

The four of them stood up, crossed hands and held firmly onto the ends of the crackers. An almighty tug was followed by four tiny explosions, which, as always, caused a ripple of laughter before each member of the family sat back down to discover what awaited them.

Sybil was rewarded with a sewing kit. “Always useful,” she remarked.

For Sidney, a bottle opener. “Very satisfactory,” he declared.

Malcolm didn’t look at all pleased with his India rubber, the same offering two years in a row.

The rest of the family turned their attention to Robin, who was shaking his cracker furiously, but nothing was forthcoming, until a golf ball fell out and rolled across the table.

None of them could have known that this simple gift would change the young man’s whole life. But then, as you are about to discover, this tale is about Robin Chapman, not his father, mother, or younger brother.

Although Robin Chapman was not a natural games player, his sports master often described him as a good team man.

Robin regularly turned out as the goalkeeper for the school’s Second XI hockey team during the winter, while in the summer he managed to secure a place in the cricket First XI as a bit of an all-rounder. However, none of those seated round that Christmas dinner table in 1921 could have predicted what was about to take place.

Robin waited until Tuesday morning before he made his first move, and then only after his father had left for work.

“Always a lot of dry cleaning to be done following the Christmas holiday,” Mr. Chapman declared before kissing his wife on the cheek and disappearing off down the driveway.

Once his father was safely out of sight, Robin climbed the stairs, pushed open the ceiling hatch, and d

ragged the dust-covered golf bag out of the loft. He carried the clubs back to his room and set about removing the dust and grime that had accumulated over the past six months with a zeal he’d never displayed in the kitchen; first the leather bag followed by the nine clubs, each one of which bore the signature of someone called Harry Vardon. Once he had completed the task, he slung the bag over his shoulder, crept down the stairs, slipped out of the house, and headed toward the seafront.

When he reached the beach, Robin dropped the bag on the ground and placed the little white ball on the sand by his feet. He then studied the array of shining clubs, not sure which one to select. He finally chose one with the word “mashie” stamped on its head. He focused on the ball and took a swing at it, causing a shower of sand to fly into the air, while the ball remained resolutely in place. After several more attempts he finally made contact with the ball, but it only advanced a few feet to his left.

Robin chased after it and repeated the exercise again and again, until the ball finally launched into the air and landed with a plop a hundred yards in front of him. By the time he’d returned home for lunch, late, he considered himself to be the next Harry Vardon. Not that he had any idea who Harry Vardon was.

Robin didn’t go back to the beach that afternoon, but instead paid a visit to the local library, where he went straight to the sports section. As he could only take out two books on his library card, he needed to be selective. After much deliberation, he removed from the shelf, Golf for Beginners and The Genius of Harry Vardon.

Back at home, he locked himself in his bedroom and didn’t reappear until he heard his mother calling up the stairs, “Supper, boys,” by which time he knew the difference between a putter, a cleek, a niblick, and a brassie. After supper he leafed through the pages of the other book, and discovered that Harry Vardon hailed from Jersey in the Channel Islands, which Robin hadn’t even realized was part of the British Empire. He also found out that Mr. Vardon had won the Open Championship on six separate occasions, a record that had never been equaled and, in the author’s opinion, never would be.

The following morning, Robin returned to the beach. He placed the book on the ground, open at a photograph of Harry Vardon in mid-swing. He dropped the ball at his feet and managed to hit it over a hundred yards on several occasions, if not always in a straight line. Once again he steadied himself, checked the photograph, raised his club, and addressed the ball, an expression regularly repeated in Golf for Beginners.

He was about to take another swing when he heard a voice behind him say, “Keep your eye on the ball, my boy, and don’t raise your head until you’ve completed the shot. That way you’ll find the ball goes a lot further.”

Robin obeyed the instruction without question, and was indeed rewarded with the promised result, although the ball disappeared into the sea, never to be seen again.

He turned to see his instructor smiling.

“Young man,” he said, “even Harry Vardon occasionally needed more than one ball. You have potential. If you present yourself at the Southend Golf Club at nine o’clock on Saturday morning, the club’s professional will try to turn that potential into something a little more worthwhile.” Without another word the gentleman strode off down the beach.