And Thereby Hangs a Tale

“It’s been more than five years since we last saw them, darling,” Robin was reminding her as a young man accompanied by his teenage sister stepped onto the quayside.

The Chapman family spent six happy weeks together before Harry reluctantly returned to the mainland to take up his place at Durham University, and Kate went back to Weybridge to begin her final year at St. Mary’s; both were looking forward to returning to Jersey at Christmas.

Robin was reading the morning paper when he heard a knock on the door.

“I have a recorded delivery for you, Mr. Chapman,” said the postman. “I’ll need a signature.”

Robin signed on the dotted line, recognizing the crest of the Royal Jersey Golf Club stamped in the top left-hand corner of the envelope. He ripped it open and read the letter as he returned to the kitchen, and read it a second time before he handed it across to Diana.

THE ROYAL JERSEY GOLF CLUB

St. Helier, Jersey

September 9, 1946

Dear Sir,

We have reason to believe that at some time in the past you applied to become a member of the Royal Jersey Golf Club, but unfortunately all our records were destroyed during the German occupation.

If you still wish to be considered for membership of the club, it will be necessary for you to go through the application process once again and we will be happy to arrange an interview.

Should your application prove successful, your name will be placed on the waiting list.

Yours sincerely,

J. L. Tindall (Secretary)

Robin swore for the first time since the Germans had left the island.

Diana could do nothing to console him, despite the fact that his brother was coming across from the mainland to spend his first weekend with them since the end of the war.

Robin was standing on the dockside when Malcolm stepped off the Southampton ferry. Malcolm was able to lift his older brother’s spirits when he told him and Diana all the news about the company’s expansion plans, as well as delivering several messages from their children.

“Kate has a boyfriend,” he told them, “and—”

“Oh, God,” said Robin. “Am I that old?”

“Yes,” said Diana, smiling.

“I’m thinking of opening a fourth branch of Chapman’s in Brighton,” Malcolm announced over dinner that night. “With so many factories springing up in the area, they’re sure to be in need of our services.”

“Not looking for a manager are you, by any chance?” asked Robin.

“Why, are you available?” replied Malcolm, looking genuinely surprised.

“No, he isn’t,” said Diana firmly.

By the time Malcolm took the boat back home to Southend the following Monday, Robin had perked up considerably. He even felt able to joke about attending the interview at the Royal Jersey. However, when the day came for him to face the committee, Diana had to escort him to the car, drive him to the club, and deposit him at the entrance to the clubhouse.

“Good luck,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. Robin grunted. “And don’t even hint at how angry you are. It’s not their fault that the Germans destroyed all the club’s records.”

“I shall tell them they can stick my application form up their jumpers,” said Robin. They both burst out laughing at the latest expression they’d picked up from the mainland. “Do they have any idea how old I’ll be in fifteen years’ time?” he added as he stepped out of the car.

Robin checked his watch. He was five minutes early. He straightened his tie before walking slowly across the gravel to the clubhouse. So many memories came flooding back: the first time he had seen Diana, when she had walked into the bar to speak to her brother; the day he was appointed captain of the club—the first Englishman to be so honored; that missed putt on the eighteenth that would have won him the President’s Cup; not being able to play in the final the following year because he’d broken his arm; the evening Lord Trent had asked him to sail him to the mainland because the Prime Minister needed his services; the day a German officer had shown him respect and compassion after he had saved the lives of his countrymen. And now, today . . . he opened the newly painted door and stepped inside.

He looked up at the portrait of Harry Vardon and gave him a respectful bow, then turned his attention to Lord Trent, who had died the previous year, having served his country during the war as the Minister for Food.

“The committee will see you now, Mr. Chapman,” said the club steward, interrupting his thoughts.