They agreed to meet at eleven outside Cynthia’s bungalow, all kitted out and ready for the trek round to the common. Their bungalows were three doors apart alongside one of the three roads which made up the map of the Village. They hadn’t managed to get two together due to previous reservations but, as Gladys put it, “that was maybe just as well as we’ll be seeing a lot of each other anyway.”
Cynthia was already waiting when Gladys emerged, slamming her front door behind her. She always was first. Gladys had discovered that she had to appear at least ten minutes before the stated time to beat Cynthia to the punch and after a while she gave up trying. Perhaps Cynthia took a shorter time over breakfast or was more efficient in dealing with the housework—who knew? One thing, however, Gladys did know about her friend was that she was neat and tidy in her appearance as well as everything else. She was perfectly turned out now in a shiny black hat which fitted snugly round her head, a zipped-up quilted jacket and trousers tucked into black wellies without a fold to be seen. The wellies looked new even though Gladys knew they weren’t. Perhaps it all had to do with Cynthia’s background, she mused as she approached her. Cynthia had worked as a civil servant, one of those roles which you weren’t allowed to discuss, even after retirement. Gladys had been a teacher and still carried with her that veneer of indomitable self-assurance and unsurpassable knowledge which she’d tried to maintain in the classroom. Untidiness was also an ongoing hallmark. Bunches of hair poked out at angles from within the scarf she’d tied round it, and her scarf tugged at her neck in the fresh breeze. She’d long since lost the fight in dealing with the absurdly complicated zip on her coat and resorted to buttoning it up, which meant it had a tendency to pull around her mid-section.
“Good morning, dear,” Cynthia greeted her as she drew close. “Not too bad the weather—I checked three forecasts.” She pointed up at a line of grey clouds scudding across the sky above them like mini battleships against an overall background of white. “Dull but no rain.”
“Oh well,” boomed Gladys, “forecasts are usually wrong but I’m sure we’ll survive whatever happens. The pro gave me a plan of the golf course when I saw him yesterday.” She pulled a rather scruffily folded piece of paper from one of her pockets. “I know exactly where to go—we’ll study this when we get there.” She stuffed the paper back whence it had come and went striding off with Cynthia struggling to keep up with her.
It was a short walk to the main entrance to the Village where the gate required a code to get back in. Then they followed the main road for a spell before they came to the entrance to the car park which served the common. Here the surface was rough and sharply undulating, pockmarked with large brown muddy puddles. “This should have been resurfaced long ago,” moaned Gladys in a loud voice as they picked their way cautiously across it. “I really don’t know what the council spends its money on.”
Cynthia was well aware from past experience that there was no point in trying to counter Gladys in this mood by detailing the numerous calls the council had to try to satisfy from its limited treasure-chest, so she stayed quiet until they reached the welcome refuge of the thick grassy bank which announced the border of the common. A clearly delineated curving track between the trees stretched out in front of them and they forged along it until suddenly they reached a wide-open green space. Here the stiff breeze developed into quite a violent wind blowing directly in their faces and the two women huddled together as they fought against it. “Have to be a bit careful here,” Gladys called out. “This is the first fairway and there are people on the tee, but we’re OK because they can’t go.” She pointed in the other direction at the Lowry-like figures of two women marching away from them tugging trolleys supporting well-stocked golf bags behind them. “Let’s cross while we can.”
They made their way across back inside the tree line. “We need to go round this corner here,” Gladys went on, indicating a stony pathway in front of them, “and it’s after that.” The wind had died down again and they made short work of the pathway back on to the grass when Gladys stopped. “This is the start of the last trail,” she announced, “and you can see the ninth fairway going along beside us. The green’s over there.” Cynthia peered between the trees and bushes as they set off again. She could just about make out the fairway but the green must be too far distant. She was struggling to catch up when Gladys stopped again.
“This is the spot.” Her voice rang out with excitement. “The pro said it was right by this oak with the split branches.” The tree was there beside them with its two limbs dangling off at crazy angles, swinging as the wind took them. She produced the map and unfolded it. “This is where it happened. The map’s quite old but you can see it quite clearly. The path was narrower then but about five years ago the club and the council finally saw sense and widened it so that golfers with trolleys could easily get past walkers.”
“As could cyclists,” Cynthia observed as she squinted at the thin black lines drawn on the map. She started as a golf ball came hurtling on to the path and bounced twice before striking her on the foot, causing her to jump and hop about before it described a gentle arc and buried itself in a particularly congealed clump of undergrowth and nettles beyond the trunk of the oak. The burly figure of a man with a round red face emerged from the side following the path of the ball. His head was topped with auburn-coloured curls and he was dressed in a bulky red top and bright yellow trousers adorned with black squares. He held a golf club in his right hand. “Oh look,” said Gladys in a loud aside. “Rupert Bear with a five iron.”
“I know,” responded the newly named Rupert. “My wife told me I looked a bit of a prat this morning but at that stage the forecast was pretty good and it was too late to change. I hope neither of you ladies was hit by my ball.”
“It got me on the foot,” Cynthia told him. She’d stopped hopping about but was still looking ruefully downwards.
“I’m so sorry. I did a terrible hook back there.” He uttered the words as though they provided an adequate excuse of any injury she might have suffered.
“I can’t imagine how you did it,” Gladys commented, as if she found straying from the fairway quite incomprehensible.
“It’s one of the worst shots I ever hit. Er… did you by any chance see where the ball went?”
Gladys pointed at the dense spot where the ball had come to rest. “In there,” she answered. Her eyes moved down to Rupert’s pristine brown and white golf shoes. “Here—give me the club. I’m better equipped than you and I saw where it went.” She grabbed the club out of his hands and strode forward off the track. While her feet clad in wellies stamped down on all the plant life beneath them, she swung the club from side to side like a machete, parting at a stroke brambles which had probably grown up tangled together for years undisturbed. She rounded the trunk of the oak tree and entered an even denser jungle than the one she had just left, and then came to a halt, parting the branches and fronds more carefully than before and using the club to dig down. All of a sudden she held her free hand aloft. “I’ve found a ball,” she announced.
“Is it a Titleist 1?” Rupert asked.
“I can’t see. It’s completely unplayable anyway.”
“That’s a nuisance. I’m three down already and there’s a tenner on the match.”
By way of answer Gladys scooped up the ball, inspected it briefly and tossed it out in Rupert’s direction. He sprang forward to catch it, almost tumbling over in the process. “That’s the one,” he panted. “Thank you.” The club followed the ball and he picked it up as it landed in front of him
“There’s another ball down here if you want that.” She picked up a mud-covered object and displayed it. “It’s been here for quite a while by the look of it but at least you know someone else once played the same shot as you, although I can’t imagine how.”
Rupert peered at her. “I don’t think I want that one,” he responded, “although I have lost two already and we’re only halfway round. It hasn’t been a good day.” He turned to go and was well on his way into the trees before he turned back to Cynthia. “I’m sorry about your foot.” And with that, in a flash of sweaty resignation and yellow trousers he was gone.
Cynthia transferred her attention back to Gladys, who was now crouching down in the place where she had found the two balls. She was probing away in the soil with her hands. Then she straightened up and came back rather more gingerly, this time without the golf club to protect her. She greeted Cynthia with a triumphant smile on her face. “I found something,” she said. She opened her hand. “It looks like a credit card.”
Her friend picked the card out of her hand with her thumb and forefinger, holding the edge of it while she scraped it with one of her fingernails. She soon gave up. “It’s definitely a credit card,” she said as she handed it back, “but it’s been hiding in there for a very long time. We’d need to take it home and give it a thorough clean to get all the muck off it.”
Gladys rubbed the card roughly on her coat and took another look. “Agreed but I’ll tell you something.” Her voice was tinged with excitement. “The expiry date of this card was twenty-nine years ago.”