Robin had no idea where the Southend Golf Club was, but he did know that the local library had always managed to answer all his questions in the past.
On Saturday morning he took the number eleven bus to the outskirts of town and was waiting outside the clubhouse a few minutes before the appointed hour.
Thus began a hobby, which turned into a passion, and finally became an obsession.
Robin joined his father as an apprentice at Chapman’s Cleaning Services a few days after he left school and, despite working long hours, he could still be found on the beach at six o’clock every morning practicing his swing, or putting at a target on his bedroom carpet late into the night.
His progress at Chapman’s Cleaning Services and at the town’s golf club went hand in hand. On his twenty-first birthday Robin was appointed as a trainee manager with the firm, and a few weeks later he was invited to play for Southend in the annual fixture against Brighton. When he stood on the first tee the following Saturday, he was so nervous he hit his opening shot into the nearest flower bed, and he didn’t fare much better for the next nine holes. By the turn, he’d left it far too late to recover and was well beaten by his opponent from Brighton.
Robin was surprised to be selected the following week for the fixture against Eastbourne. Although still nervous, he put up a far better performance and managed to halve his match. After that, he rarely missed a first-team fixture.
Although Robin began to take over many of his father’s responsibilities at work, he never allowed business to interfere with his first love. On Mondays he would practice his driving, Wednesdays his bunker shots, and on Fridays his putting. On Saturdays his brother, Malcolm, who had recently completed his apprenticeship with the firm, kept a watchful eye on the shop while Robin kept his eye on the ball, until it had finally sunk into the eighteenth hole.
On Sundays, after attending church—his mother still wielded some influence over him—Robin would head for the club and play nine holes before lunch.
He wasn’t sure which gave him more satisfaction: his father asking him to take over the business on his retirement, or Southend Golf Club inviting him to be the youngest captain in the club’s history.
The following Christmas, his father sat at the head of the table as usual, puffing away on his cigar, but it was Robin who presented the annual report. He didn’t rub in the fact that the profits had almost doubled during his first year as manager, and nor did he mention that at the same time he’d become a scratch player. This happy state of affairs might have continued without interruption, and indeed this story would never have been written, had it not been for an unexpected invitation landing on the club captain’s desk.
When the Royal Jersey Golf Club wrote to inquire if Southend would care for a fixture, Robin jumped at the opportunity to visit the birthplace of Harry Vardon and play on the course that had made him so famous.
Six weeks later Robin and his team took a train to Weymouth before boarding the ferry for St. Helier. Robin had planned that they should arrive in Jersey the day before the match so they would have enough time to become acquainted with a course none of them had played before. Unfortunately, he hadn’t planned for a storm breaking out during the crossing. The ancient vessel somehow managed to sway from side to side while at the same time bobbing up and down as it made its slow progress to Jersey. During the crossing, most of the team were to be found, a pale shade of green, leaning over the side being violently sick, while Robin, oblivious to their malady, strolled up and down the deck, enjoying the sea air. One or two of his fellow passengers looked at him with envy, while others just stared in disbelief.
When the ferry finally docked at St. Helier, the rest of the team, several pounds lighter, made their way straight to their hotel where they quickly checked into their rooms and were not to be seen again before breakfast the following morning. Robin took a taxi in the opposite direction, and instructed the driver to take him to the Jersey Royal Golf Club.
“Royal Jersey,” corrected the cabbie politely. “Jersey Royal is a potato,” he explained with a chuckle.
When the taxi came to a halt outside the main entrance of the magnificent clubhouse, Robin didn’t budge. He stared at the MEMBERS ONLY sign, and if the driver hadn’t said, “That’ll be two shillings, guv,” he might not have moved. He settled the fare, got out of the cab, and walked hesitantly across the gravel toward the clubhouse. He tentatively opened the large double door and stepped into an imposing marble entrance hall to be greeted by two full-length oil portraits facing each other on opposite walls. Robin immediately recognized Harry Vardon, dressed in plus fours and a Fair Isle cardigan, and carrying a niblick in his left hand. He gave him a slight bow before turning his attention to the other picture, but he did not recognize the elderly, chisel-faced gentleman wearing a long black frock-coat and gray pinstriped trousers.
Robin suddenly became aware of a young man looking at him quizzically. “My name’s Robin Chapman,” he said uncertainly, “I’m—”
“—the captain of the Southend Golf Club,” the young man said. “And I’m Nigel Forsyth, captain of the Royal Jersey. Care to join me for a drink, old fellow?”
“Thank you,” said Robin. He and his opposite number strolled through the hall to a thickly carpeted room furnished with comfortable leather chairs. Nigel pointed to a seat in a bay window overlooking the eighteenth hole, and went over to the bar. Robin wanted to look out of the window and study the course, but forced himself not to.
Nigel returned carrying two half-pints of shandy and placed one on the table in front of his guest. As he sat down he raised his own glass. “Are you a one-man team, by any chance?” he asked.
Robin laughed. “No, the rest of my lot are probably tucked up in bed,” he said, “their rooms still tossing round.”
“Ah, you must have come over on the Weymouth Packet.”
“Yes,” said Robin, “but we’ll get our revenge on the return fixture.”
“Not a hope,” said Nigel. “Whenever we travel to the mainland we always go via Southampton. That route has modern vessels fitted with stabilizers. Perhaps I should have mentioned that in my letter,” he added with a grin. “Care for a round before it gets dark?”
Once they were out on the course, it soon became clear to Robin why so many old timers were always recalling rounds they had played at the Royal Jersey. The course was the finest he’d ever played, and the thought that he was walking in Harry Vardon’s footsteps only added to his enjoyment.
When Robin’s ball landed on the eighteenth green some five feet from the hole, Nigel volunteered, “If the rest of your team are as good as you, Robin, we’ll have one hell of a game on our hands tomorrow.”
“They’re far better,” said Robin, not missing a beat as they walked off the green and made their way back to the clubhouse.
“Same again?” asked Nigel as they headed toward the bar.
“No, this one’s on me,” insisted Robin.
“Sorry, old fellow, guests are not allowed to pay for a drink. Strict rule of the club.”
Robin came to a halt once again in front of the large portrait of the elderly gentleman. Nigel answered his unasked question. “That’s our president, Lord Trent. He’s not half as frightening as he looks, as you’ll discover tomorrow evening when he joins us for dinner. Have a seat while I go and fetch those drinks.”