The following morning, Robin returned to the beach. He placed the book on the ground, open at a photograph of Harry Vardon in mid-swing. He dropped the ball at his feet and managed to hit it over a hundred yards on several occasions, if not always in a straight line. Once again he steadied himself, checked the photograph, raised his club, and addressed the ball, an expression regularly repeated in Golf for Beginners.
He was about to take another swing when he heard a voice behind him say, “Keep your eye on the ball, my boy, and don’t raise your head until you’ve completed the shot. That way you’ll find the ball goes a lot further.”
Robin obeyed the instruction without question, and was indeed rewarded with the promised result, although the ball disappeared into the sea, never to be seen again.
He turned to see his instructor smiling.
“Young man,” he said, “even Harry Vardon occasionally needed more than one ball. You have potential. If you present yourself at the Southend Golf Club at nine o’clock on Saturday morning, the club’s professional will try to turn that potential into something a little more worthwhile.” Without another word the gentleman strode off down the beach.
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.”
Nigel was standing at the bar when a young woman came in. She walked briskly across and whispered something in his ear. He nodded, and she left as quickly as she’d arrived.
From the moment she entered the room to the moment she left, Robin had been unable to take his eyes off her. “You didn’t tell me you had a goddess on the island,” he said when Nigel handed him another half-pint of shandy.
“Ah, you must be referring to Diana,” he said as the young lady disappeared.
“An appropriate name for a goddess,” said Robin. “And how enlightened of you to allow women members.”
“Certainly not,” said Nigel, grinning. “She’s Lord Trent’s secretary.” He took a sip of his drink before adding, “But I think she’s attending the dinner tomorrow night, so you’ll have a chance to meet your goddess.”
When Robin returned to the hotel later that evening, only one other member of the team felt able to join him for dinner. Robin wondered whether the rest would have recovered sufficiently to be standing on the first tee by ten o’clock the following morning. Though in truth, he was already thinking more about tomorrow evening.
Southend somehow managed a full turnout by the time the chief steward asked the two captains to tee up at the first hole.
As the visiting captain, Robin struck the first ball. Five hours later the score board showed that the Royal Jersey had beaten Southend Golf Club by four and a half matches to three and a half. Not a bad result, Robin considered, given the circumstances, but then he’d never played a better round in his life, which may have been because Diana seemed to be following Nigel round the course. Another home advantage.
After a few drinks in the clubhouse, with no sign of Diana, the Southend team returned to their hotel to change for dinner. Robin was the first one waiting in the foyer. Nervously he touched his bow tie after he’d checked with the receptionist that three taxis had been ordered for seven o’clock.
Robin didn’t speak on the journey back to the Royal Jersey, and when he led his team into the dining room, Nigel was waiting to greet him. Diana was standing by his side. Lucky man, thought Robin.
“Good to see you again, old fellow,” Nigel said, and turning to Diana, he added, “I don’t believe you’ve met my sister.”
“You’re going to do what?” said his father.
“I’m going to move to Jersey, where I intend to open a branch of Chapman’s Cleaning Services.”
“But I always thought you planned to open a second branch in Southend, while I took over the main shop,” said Malcolm, sounding equally bemused by his brother’s news.
“You’ll still be taking over the main shop, Malcolm, while I open our first overseas branch.”
Robin’s father seemed to be momentarily struck dumb, so his mother took advantage of this rare occurrence. “What’s the real reason you want to go back to Jersey?” she asked, looking her son in the eye.
“I’ve found the finest golf course on earth, Mother, and if they’ll have me, I intend to become a member and play on it for the rest of my life.”
“No,” said his mother quietly, “I asked for the real reason.” The rest of the family remained silent as they waited for Robin’s reply.
“I’ve found the most beautiful woman on earth, and if she’ll have me, I’d like her to become my wife.”
Robin boarded the boat back to Jersey the following Friday, despite having failed to answer his mother’s third question: “Has this young lady agreed to be your wife?”
The only thing Diana had agreed to was to join him on the dance floor for a quickstep, but during those three minutes Robin knew he wanted to hold onto this woman for the rest of his life. “I’ll be coming back next weekend,” he told her.
“But the team are playing away at Wentworth next Saturday,” she remarked innocently.
Robin was surprised to find Diana standing on the quayside when the ferry sailed into the harbor the following Saturday. Whom had she come to meet, he wondered, and only hoped it wasn’t another man.
When he stepped off the gangway, Diana gave him the same warm smile that had remained in his mind for the past week.
“I wasn’t sure you believed me when I said I’d be coming back,” he said shyly as they shook hands.
“I wasn’t sure you would,” admitted Diana, “but then I thought, if the poor man is willing to give up a weekend’s golf just to spend some time with me, the least I can do is meet him off the boat.”
Robin smiled at the thought that he couldn’t even remember who Southend were playing that day, and took Diana’s hand as they walked along the causeway.
If you had asked him how they spent the weekend, all he could remember was reluctantly climbing back on the ferry on Sunday evening, after kissing her for the first time.
“See you same time next Saturday, Diana,” he shouted down as he leaned over the railings, but the boat’s foghorn drowned his words.
Diana was standing on the quayside the following Saturday, and every Saturday until Robin stopped taking the ferry back to Weymouth.
During the week, Robin would book a trunk call so they could speak to each other every evening. Diana spent her spare time looking at properties in St. Helier that might meet his requirements. She finally found a shop on the high street whose lease was about to expire, with a hotel across the road that needed to change its bed linen and towels every day, and several restaurants that believed in spotless napkins and fresh tablecloths. Robin agreed that it was the ideal location to open a branch of Chapman’s Cleaning Services.
The following Saturday he signed a three-year renewable lease, and immediately moved into the flat above the shop. If he hadn’t won Diana’s hand by the end of the lease, and also become a member of the Royal Jersey Golf Club, he would have to admit defeat, return to the mainland, and open a second branch of Chapman’s in Southend.
Although he was confident that, given time, both challenges would be surmounted, becoming a member of the RJGC turned out to be a far more difficult proposition than getting Diana to agree to be his wife.
It didn’t take long for Robin to qualify as a playing member of the Royal Jersey, and he was delighted when Nigel invited him to represent the club in the hotly contested local derby against Guernsey. Robin won his match, and proposed to Diana that night.
“What if you hadn’t been picked for the team?” she asked, unable to take her eyes off the small, sparkling diamond on the third finger of her left hand.
“I’d have whisked you off to England and sunk the Weymouth ferry,” said Robin without hesitation.
Diana laughed. “So, what are my champion’s plans for conquering the old guard who make up the committee of the Royal Jersey?”
“They’ve granted me an interview next month,” he told her, “so we’ll soon find out if we’re going to spend the rest of our lives in St. Helier or Southend-on-Sea.”
“Don’t forget that only one in three people who apply for full membership even get onto the waiting list,” Diana reminded him.
Robin smiled. “Possibly so, but with Lord Trent as my proposer, and your brother as my seconder, I must have a better than one-in-three chance.”
“So that’s why you asked me to marry you,” Diana said, still staring at her ring.
________
When the appointed hour came for Robin to appear before the committee, he admitted to Diana that he had never been so nervous, even though everyone seated on the other side of
the table seemed to smile whenever he answered their undemanding questions, and nods of approval greeted the Englishman’s detailed knowledge of the life of Harry Vardon.
Ten days later, Robin received a letter from the club secretary to say that his application had been successful and his name would be placed on the waiting list.
“The waiting list?” said Robin in frustration. “How long do they expect me to hang about before I become a member?”
“My brother warned me,” said Diana, “that if you weren’t born on the island, it usually takes ten to fifteen years.”
“Ten to fifteen years?” repeated Robin in disgust, before adding, “Lord Trent wasn’t born on the island.”
“True,” said Diana, “but at the time the committee was looking for a new president, preferably with a title, so they made him an honorary life member.”
“And are there any other honorary life members?”
“Only Harry Vardon,” replied Diana.
“Well, I’m no Harry Vardon,” said Robin.
“There’s one other way you could automatically become a life member,” said Diana.
“And what’s that?” said Robin eagerly.
“Win the President’s Cup.”
“But I was knocked out in the second round last year,” Robin reminded her. “In any case, your brother’s in a different class to me.”
“Just make sure you get to the final this year,” said Diana. “I’ll fix my brother.”
________
Robin and Diana were married at the local parish church later that summer. The vicar agreed to conduct the ceremony on a Sunday, but only because the Royal Jersey had a crucial match against Rye on the Saturday.