Free Captain's Day by Terry Ravenscroft Page B

it from doing so. The ball ricocheted from tree to tree half a dozen times, much like a ball in a pinball machine. Whenever this happens - as it often does in club golf - and if you are in luck, the last ricochet can deposit the ball on the fairway. Fidler was not in luck and his ball came to rest somewhere, he knew not where, deep in the trees. Dawson and Elwes cringed as they waited for the expected outburst from Fidler. They didn’t have long to wait.
    “ This is you two, all this,” Fidler raged. “This is your doing. I always hit everything dead straight when I play Top Flight fours!”
    “ Yes, I'm hitting Top Flight fours pretty straight myself,” said Elwes agreeably, then added, “But then of course I usually am fairly straight.”
    “ I'd be fairly fucking straight if I was playing Top Flight fours,” Fidler ranted.
    “ Oh come on George, you can't blame your wild hitting on the type of ball you’re using,” scoffed Dawson.
    “ It is the bloody ball! It is! I'm as straight as a die with Top Flight fours.”
    Elwes goaded Fidler further. “It's a bad workman who blames his tools.”
    “ It's you two tools who I'm blaming. As well as the bloody ball.”
“You’d better play a provisional,” Elwes advised. He took a ball from his golf bag. “Here, try one of my Top Flight fours since you hit them so straight.” He produced a felt tip pen. “I'll mark it so it can't get mixed up with my Top Flight four.”
    “ There's no chance of that happening Tony,” said Dawson, as adept at stirring as was Elwes. “Your ball will be the one on the fairway.”
    Fidler, just about managing to stop himself rising to the bait, accepted the marked ball from Elwes. After taking a few seconds to compose himself, and taking great care in taking up his stance and lining himself up with the intended target, he finally settled over the ball. He was just about to start taking the club back when the helicopter suddenly appeared as if from nowhere, crossing the fairway some hundred yards ahead, at a height of about thirty feet. Fidler, having been warned by Mr Captain about the helicopter, was not surprised by its appearance, and although annoyed, simply stood back and watched it until it had disappeared from view, then went through the whole setting up procedure again, if anything even more meticulously than before. Then he drove off. This time the ball hit the fairway, plumb centre. Unfortunately, due to a violent hook, it wasn't the fairway of the hole he was playing but the fairway of the eleventh hole, which ran parallel to the fourth.
    “ Shit!” said Fidler.
    “ Maybe you could get the helicopter pilot to spot for you?” suggested Elwes.
    Fidler fixed him. “And maybe you could keep your fucking great trap of a mouth shut.”

    Mr Captain arrived back at the first tee just in time to welcome the next three ball of Trevor Armitage, Gerard Stock and George Grover.
    “ How's it all going then, Mr Captain?” said Grover. “Your Captain's Day?”
    “ Oh excellent, George. Quite excellent. All I could have hoped for. I had to put Richard Irwin in his place about the ladies, but apart from that there has not been even a minor blip.”
No sooner had the words left Mr Captain’s mouth than the first minor blip arrived in the shape of Abbott. Quickly followed by a major blip in the shape of the naked Dean Shawcross. Fortunately for Abbott, with Dean by now almost upon him, his route off the golf course took him across the gravel path that led from the clubhouse to the first tee, and when Dean followed him onto the path the sharp gravel chippings dug into his feet and immediately brought him hopping to a stop.
    In the meantime Abbott sped on. Dean saw there was nothing for it but to abandon the chase and contented himself with shaking a fist after Abbott and shouting, “Wait till I get my hands on you, I'll tear you apart you dirty old get!” Then he noticed Mr Captain and the others, who were staring at him,