I believe fate plays a very important part in life. But fate doesn’t work alone. It has assistants. Fate may be pointing you to a future that has no appeal to you at that time, but which in hindsight can be seen as both benign and inevitable. As a young boy, I was, like my mother before me, enthralled by Moor Park Mansion and all its mystery. My friends and I explored what were once secret escape tunnels. The tunnels ran from hidden entrances within the Mansion and out onto what was now the golf course. One of them had its exit on the left hand side of the twelfth green on the west course. We often sheltered there if it was raining, or if we had to hide for a sneaky smoke, which was frowned on at our young age. I was filled with excitement and moved by Moor Park’s splendour and mystery. My mind filled with thoughts of daring escapades down the tunnels. I could imagine the round heads and cavaliers as they fought there centuries before. I could hear the sounds of the swords clashing and amour being struck. I heard the shrieks of pain from the injured. I was uplifted from what otherwise would have been a very boring life and transposed into a more flexible realm with much greater possibilities. I was hungry for the tales of its great past. I felt the Mansion spoke to me in a secret language that only I understood. The Mansion and its aura stayed with me wherever my travels took me. I believe that in some unfathomable way, it influenced me, my future and my fate.
Some weekends I spent nearly every daylight hour there as a Caddy Boy. At various times throughout the year important professional golf tournaments were held there. Unfortunately these always started on a Thursday or Friday. When I say unfortunately, it didn’t interfere with our plans, because we all played truant during those tournaments. I was constantly there in the company of a group of local lads who became lifelong friends. We all attended the same school, but school didn’t count when the golf was on. One memorable time our truancy caused the Headmaster to deliver the following comments to the whole school at morning assembly:
“The Silver King golf tournament must be on at Moor Park, because the usual suspects are missing”. A cough and a pause, “however, they will all be suitably punished.”
And we were. We accepted the canings and considered it a fair exchange. I suppose today that would inspire misguided parents to protest at such harsh corporal punishment blah, blah, blah. Personally I think it was a better way of life. None of us became masochists, sadists or the like, nor were we adversely affected by it. The school preserved good order and discipline and those of us with enough daring had our freedom and an early lesson in bending the rules. Unlike my friends I went on to make an art form out of that.
A character-forming incident that took place at that time concerning the Silver King Golf Tournament deserves telling at this stage of the story. Strangely though and most interestingly, the story’s final act was played out some forty-two years later. Caddying at Moor Park for us local boys wasn’t just work for which we were well paid; it was a way of life and an education. We mixed with older caddies, who spent their time on the road travelling from tournament to tournament and living rough. They were legends in their own right in golfing circles; they were kings of the road and great characters and we boys were exposed to them and their ways. They lived in that style because they chose to. They were scruffy and smelly and wore the same clothes all year round, but they were highly prized as skilful caddies. The great golfer and now world renowned TV commentator, Peter Allis, often talks of them and includes little anecdotes about them in his commentaries. He often speaks of Riley. I knew Riley and we learnt at an early age never to stand downwind of him and his friend Trumper. Then there were Jud, Ice cream Jock, Maurice, who was Harry Bradshaw’s caddy and Gardener Jock. They were from a bygone age. They were all rebels against the system, but they never posed any harm to us boys.
Now, back to the incident. If my memory serves me right I would have been fourteen, maybe less, at the time. Gordon Cooper, Dave Phelps and me, all caddies, boyhood friends then and still friends today. We had all played truant to caddy in the Silver King. All the above-mentioned adult caddies had turned up at the course and were booked out caddying for their regular professionals. We however were needed for the lesser pros. This was one of the main southern tournaments with good prize money for those days. Consequently there was a full field, so lots of caddies were needed. The Caddy Master had control of the appointments. The method of allocating appointments was barbaric. However, that was the way of things. There is a pecking order at every level of life, no matter how basic and this was basic. The Caddy Master’s name was Middie. His office was the front section of the Caddy Shack, a dilapidated ramshackle, wooden ex-army hut. The door was in two sections, like a stable door. At the chosen moment Middie would have us all crowd around his office door. Full of importance, he would come to the door and pick somebody from the murmuring, agitated crowd of scruffy adult caddies and young schoolboys, all eager to make some money. The system suited those with the least pride, or the pushiest, biggest, or most servile amongst us. I was none of those. There was no evidence of loyalty or fairness. And this from the land that allegedly introduced the notion of “women and children first” and had fought great battles for trade union recognition. This country was world famous for its culture of queuing. What happened here, however, was a mini demonstration of the law of the jungle and what happens in a life without the benefit of order and the rule of law. I often found myself standing forlornly on my own, or with another couple of unfortunates in life’s lottery, who had suffered under Middie’s favouritism. I realised that fairness was a rare commodity and whoever dished out luck didn’t manage to do it evenly. Bad luck and good luck were realities and your life could be mightily influenced by how and which of those two rascals was in dominance. At that stage of my life I was probably a bit too sensitive to be exposed to the rough and tumble of Middie’s selection process. I felt real pain and bitterness over the exclusions I experienced there and I’ve never been much good at waiting patiently in queues ever since.
Golf in those days was very much the preserve of the upper classes, an expression of the obnoxious British class system. In support of that contention consider this as an example. As late as the fifties, the golf club professionals were not allowed in the clubhouse, unless invited for a specific purpose by a member. With that attitude applying to the professionals, you can see where we caddies were in the pecking order, stone cold last. I was in the crowd outside Middie’s door. Plenty of jobs had been allocated and I was still there and the crowd was thinning. My expectation of a job and hopes of money in my pocket were fading. I surprised myself.
“Middie, what about me?” I heard a frustrated angry shout. Christ! That was me. The worm was turning. Middie was startled; almost confused.
“Err, err … yes, you take Mr John Sheridan, he’s off in twenty minutes on the high course.”
Mr John Sheridan; I couldn’t believe it. He was a local, well known and high-performing pro. This was a bit of a coup. Middie interrupted my state of shock. “He’s over on the putting green, get over there now.” I sprinted off, fearful that Middie might change his mind. I was calculating what this might be worth to me - three days if he qualified, at possibly a pound a day and maybe more if he did well. So this is how you have to act in this world to get on. My involuntary shout had caused Middie to notice me; it was an early lesson in the squeaky hinge syndrome.
“Mr Sheridan, Sir, I’m your caddy.”
He regarded me with an uncertain look on his face. I recognised it as doubt. I was fourteen and still spindly so I had to get in first.
“I know the course, Mr Sheridan, I’m here every weekend and I play with the other caddies down at the Municipal course,” I said to try to impress him.
He weighed that up. I could see that I was winning.
“Okay,” he said “grab my clubs, that’s them over there.”
He pointed to a fine, big rust-coloured golf bag with his name on it leaning against the wall at the entrance to the spike bar.
It was a gorgeous, late spring day, probably made better by my promising new circumstances. We made our way past the tennis courts to the tree-lined path leading us up the hill and to the first tee of the famous Moor Park High Course. John was a tallish, slimly built man, with a deep tan from his life on the golf course. He must have been in his early thirties. It was 1953 and professional golf was building again after the lull caused by the Second World War, which had finished just eight years previously. We were joined on the tee by two other pros; one had a caddy, the other a young player in his first season who probably couldn’t afford one. The starter called them forward. John had the honour and hit a screamer of a drive, well up the right hand side of the fairway, leaving him a six or seven iron to the green. The tees were well back, so it was a good shot, a good start, a good omen. The other two played reasonable drives, but they were well short of John’s ball. They all made standard par fours on the first hole. The round was a good one and I gave John a couple of good putting lines on the greens. I watched every shot intently. I always had his ball well spotted when he missed a fairway and it went into the rough. As a result of that we didn’t lose any, which is probably the most important job in the caddies role.
So all in all I had done a pretty good job. At the end of the round John told me he was pleased with me and confirmed me for the next day. He paid me my pound, which was the rate at the time in a pro tournament. I was very happy with that.
“Okay, Len, that was good, you did very well.”
He had played well and was pleased with himself. He was like all golfers who had played well. The world becomes so much a better place, the course superb and the greens fabulous. You the victor are the proud possessor of a natural talent. You don’t intend to be patronising about the efforts of others, but for a little while it becomes your right. This first round score of John’s, two over par, had placed him in the top ten, a good start in the competition. On the other hand you always have the golfer who has played badly. He is the one who has been unjustly treated, who must have been in a parallel universe. He had found the same course and greens just the opposite, in fact very poor. Bloody unfair to be truthful and he had also suffered extraordinary bad luck. It’s a universal syndrome in golf. There may not be such a rigorous test of character in any other sport. We caddies learnt early that golf could make a person the kindly caring king of all he surveys who will happily pay you a bit more than arranged. Or it can make him a foul-mouthed demon who might hold you totally responsible for his lack of form or ability. And then be reluctant to pay you at all.
So with the first round behind us, let’s get on with the case of the missing golf balls. I was feeling pretty confident with myself and pleased with my day’s efforts. I had money in my pocket. He liked me; he said I had done well. That’s when I made the first mistake. We had made our way back to the clubhouse on leaving the eighteenth green. We caddies used to play pitch and putt behind the Caddy shack on a makeshift green. It was really a grassless piece of ground used for parking tractors and implements. Sometimes there was an old club hanging around, or otherwise we used bits of conduit pipe bent to resemble a club. Being the type of lads we were, we used to gamble on the results. We didn’t see ourselves as cowboys, or soldier heroes. Our role models were the leading golfers of the day. Panton, Faulkner, Rees, Allis, Locke, Von Nida, Bradshaw, Cotton were our heroes.
The gambling used to get pretty serious, as did the card games in the caddy shed. Mostly pontoon, or seven-card brag. We were raggedy arsed Bugsy Malone’s, but this was no game, or a film. This was life in a pretty hard lane. We were out there trying to make some money in all sorts of weather. Unfortunately there was no such luxury as protective clothing for us. In our families we had to get out and get our own money. Pocket money was a concept that didn’t get much traction in Mill End; there was precious little of anything to spare. The funny thing is though, we were happy and we achieved not only financial independence, but also more importantly, independence of spirit. The real upside I suppose was that along the way, we learned some of the hard, but valuable lessons in life.
John had gone to his car and retrieved something. He opened the boot and came back to me, saying “Make sure the clubs are clean. Put them in the boot, its open, make sure you slam it tight shut and I’ll see you tomorrow,” as he disappeared into the scorer’s office. I went to his car. I think it was a black Wolsey, they were quite popular then. This responsibility had induced a very strong sense of propriety within me. I carried the heavy bag to the car, glad I was finished carrying it for the day. I leaned it against the bumper and then gave the clubs a final clean. I had noticed that John’s bag contained an unusually high number of brand new golf balls. I couldn’t resist it. I looked again. There must have been at least a couple of dozen of them, loose, but still in their crinkly shiny black wrappers. These were brand new Dunlop sixty fives, untold riches for us, but mere baubles for the pros. I wrestled, not with my conscience (which was known to be a poor wrestler) but with the odds of getting caught if I snaffled two or three of them. This was like putting Raffles the famous jewel thief in charge of the Kohinoor Diamond. Or more to the point, it was like leaving the rabbit in charge of the lettuce patch. It really was a foregone conclusion. I counted them, there were twenty-two. John must have taken delivery of them from a company rep and the boxes would have taken up too much room in the bag.
I took three; I thought he wouldn’t notice that amount missing.
I wandered down to Ricky with my pals. We had played a quick gambling game of ours called ‘up the mop’, which consisted of flicking coins against a wall. The winner was the thrower who managed to completely cover a previously thrown coin. If he did he scooped all coins on the floor. You know how it is; some days, things just go right. This day was one of those for me. I won two large pots that probably amounted to a couple of shillings in change. We were all in high spirits. We had money in our pockets and the prospect of more. Particularly me, as John’s score was the best of the pros we had caddied for between us. With his low score he seemed certain to qualify for the next two days’ play. It must have been about four o’clock; the sun was still shining (well it was for me). We stopped off at the Municipal Course at the bottom of the hill. It was known colloquially as “Tricky Ricky”. The pro there was Alec Herd, a well thought of club pro in the golfing world. His major claim to fame though was the fact that he was the son of the famous Sandy Herd, who was a winner of “The Open.” The ultimate win in the world of golf and maybe of all individual sport at that time.
We were the proud possessors of money, so we hired some clubs and played a few holes. No quarter asked and certainly none given. The winners were, as usual on the golf course, Gordon Cooper and Johnny West. These two went on to become fine golfers who both achieved a handicap of one. That was in the days when your handicap was calculated from rounds played away from your own course! This made your handicap a far truer indicator of ability. The other distinction they achieved was that they both represented the County, which was a real feat for working class guys in those days. Such was the measure of their talent that in a more recent age they would both have had the opportunity and ability to have gone far in the Professional game. Development and subsequent progress in life is so often defined by the relevant opportunities available to you in respect of your occupation. The emphatic rule for success is luck and timing. Talent is a necessary component, but secondary to it. That rule applied to all endeavours, as I was to learn.
Next it was off to the pictures, where, as we were still in funds, it was smoking Senior Service ‘ciggies’ and eating Kit Kats and Mars Bars. The day would have been finished off with fish and chips and making our way home at about ten o’clock. I went to sleep feeling pleased with myself and not thinking that there was a storm awaiting me in the morning. I was up bright and early; I made my way to the golf course. I was still enjoying a flush of success when Middie spotted me. “Russell you little shit, come over here,” he roared. He verbally laid into me for all to hear. It transpired that John Sheridan had checked his equipment thoroughly and knew he was missing three new Dunlop golf balls. I was not only suspect number one; I was the only suspect, suspect not being quite a strong enough word. I was a thieving little bastard. My euphoric world came crashing down; I had gone from King of the Kids to a sad loser in a flash.
Middie carried on with his tirade until at last he ran out of breath. “Sod off, now!” were his last words. He barred me for a month, which he had the power to do. He had demanded the balls back; but I said I didn’t have them. There was no point in returning them; it wasn’t going to get me off the hook. So there I was walking back down the hill to Ricky on my lonesome, deflated and dejected. I still had some money left even after giving seven shillings and six pence to my mother. That was the rule in those days; everybody had to chip in if you had made some money. Middie’s punishment could have been worse. He could have barred me forever, but the Middies of the world were no angels themselves. Thinking about the incident years later as I often did, I realised that only one hundred years or so previously I would probably have been transported to Australia for such a heinous crime. Some forty-two years later after living in New Zealand and Australia and becoming quite a force in the golf equipment-retailing world, amongst other things, I returned to Rickmansworth. I had re-established myself with my old friends who were still serious golfers. I played quite a lot with them at Moor Park, our spiritual home, particularly for me considering my mother’s background there. These games and this company took me right back to the times of our youth spent there. In my mind I could see and hear us caddying, roaming, scrapping, playing our card and gambling games. I relived those glorious and sometimes not so glorious days, memories of which had meant so much to me in my travels and my new life down under. I had resolved some years ago that when I returned to England I would seek out John Sheridan and make myself known to him. Not in any mischievous or bad way, but for me it was burying a ghost. I had two or three jobs like that to do!
John, I had found out, was now living on the Denham Golf course, where he had been employed as the professional for many years. I understood he had a house there made available to him in his retirement by the club. I armed myself with three new Dunlop balls. I also took some souvenirs of my golf shops in New Zealand and a New Zealand All Black scarf as a present for him. I thought that incident had benefited me in some way, but I also wanted to put things to right. On my arrival at the Denham Golf Course I made some enquiries and I was told John was in the bar with a couple of friends. I made my way there and even after all those forty-two years I recognised him. I chose my moment and went and introduced myself with the following words. John you don’t recognise me, but I owe you these three golf balls.
“Do you?” he said. “When was that from?”
“Forty-two years ago,” I said. Then much to the amusement of his friends I related the tale and the circumstances around it.
“My God,” he said. “I remember it well. So you’re that little bugger.”
He looked intensely at me. I think he was reminded of pleasant times; I could see him reaching back in his mind. Then he slowly smiled.
“I was disappointed at the time as that was my best opening round in the Silver King. I felt it took the edge off things a bit.”
Anyway we shook hands and had a drink. His friends joshed him unmercifully over the incident and his getting me the sack etc. We chatted about golf down under and my shops and the like. We had a pleasant hour and then it was time to go. I hope it brought back some pleasant memories for him and it put a ghost to bed for me even if it had taken forty-two years. I remember I was smiling as I left John and the clubhouse. It was such a perfect day as I drove through the golf course. I drove down those lovely Buckinghamshire country lanes and back to Rickmansworth. This little event in my life was far from a bank robbery, or financial scam relived and put to rights, but in accomplishing it, I felt a real glow of satisfaction. I couldn’t help but wonder what Middie would have thought.