moved what was left of his mobile phone around with his right toe. It could have been a deceased hedgehog at the side of a busy road; all that was missing were the flies.
“Give him a seat Jones,” said the Sergeant, to which the policeman responded by guiding Felix into the nearest chair.
It was then that Bunnie noticed the four staff members, all behind the bar and all sniggering at the commotion that had unfolded before them.
“Why have you got this purse?” asked the Sergeant, who had opened the purse, removed the money and was counting it.
“My husband is the club treasurer. He was warned that fake notes were in circulation and he asked me to collect the money from the till this morning, take them to him at his place of work, where he could check them and then return the float to the till before the bar opened.”
“So there has been no robbery?”
Apart from the police most people were staring at the floor, except for Rupert who was watching the seagulls again.
“And Mister Forrest?”
“A misunderstanding Sergeant,” stated Bunnie, who was glad that the female police officer had come back into the clubhouse, minus friend.
“We’ve got a priority shout Searg,” she said, indicating her radio.
“De-arrest these two,” ordered the Sergeant, at which the two other policemen launched into some verbal tirade like magicians with their hocus-pocus. “And please madam,” said the Sergeant, leaning in to Bunnie, perhaps so that he didn’t have to raise his voice or perhaps to emphasise his words, or maybe both. “If you need our services in the
future please make sure of your facts before you call us.”
They left. Their sirens diminished as the silence in the clubhouse grew, that is until the door slammed.
“I say,” hissed Bunnie, who was secretly pleased that Mister Forrest had left the building.
“I need a drink,” called Ginny, towards the staff, one of whom responded by jabbing a glass under the optic that held the gin bottle.
“I think you should go home and have a rest,” suggested Bunnie.
“You’ve been through a lot my dear and it’s a bit early to be getting squiffy.”
“I’ll just have this and go,” explained Ginny, who had made her way to the bar.
“Yes but we don’t allow dogs in the clubhouse my dear”
Ginny, while collecting her things wondered if Bunnie was insulting her or simply quoting the club rulebook. She smiled at the members of staff who she gave the little pink purse to before regaining her composure and making her exit.
“Nellie, I need you to get on the phone,”
“Why, what’s up?”
“We need to get a replacement chappie for this evening to present the prizes.”
“You don’t think anyone’s going to come here after the way you treated Felix?” asked Harper, who found Rupert agreeing with him.
“Felix Forrest’s phone is broken Mister O Neill. If we can get hold of these PGA people before he gets back to their headquarters we might be able to have a replacement sent before Felix tells his side of the story.”
“I see,” said Harper, impressed with Bunnie’s conniving.
“But what happens if we get another. You know?” asked Fenella.
“Good point,” said Bunnie, to the proverbial spanner that was still, in her opinion in mid-air, but most definitely heading for the works.
“I know,” said Rupert, who raced over to a side table where there was collection of magazines where he rummaged.
“Here!” he announced, coming back towards the group. “An article about this year’s PGA tour. It’s got a list of all the players; it’s even got their pictures and a bit about them.”
Bunnie inspected the magazine.
“Well done Rupert. We must see about getting you on the committee.”
Nellie took the magazine and went off to the telephone. Things were looking up.
“Now gentlemen,” said Bunnie, happy that her ship was once again on course; all she needed now was a bit of wind. “Let’s get these tables organised.”
Harper and Rupert finished off arranging the tables. The four staff furnished them, arranged the chairs and even managed to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Fenella returned, beaming a huge smile.
“And?” asked Bunnie.
”No problem,” squealed Fenella. “ I explained that there was some mix up and we needed a replacement. So they’re sending us Martin Maguire.”
“Who?”
“Martin Maguire. I believe he’s number seven in the ratings. Everybody else above him is busy.”
Fenella pointed at his photograph and Bunnie smiled. There would be no mistakes this time. No spanner hurtling towards her perfect works. Fenella handed over the magazine to Bunnie.
“I’ll shoot off now and get those flowers Bunnie.”
“Fine. You do that, Nellie old girl,” answered Bunnie, who had found her reading glasses and was focusing on the blurb beside the photograph of Mister Maguire.
Fenella put on her jacket, collected her handbag and was about to ask if there was anything else she could do, when she noticed that Bunnie seemed to be in a state of shock.
“Oh dear. Bunnie, what’s wrong? He’s not black.”
“No Nellie, he isn’t.” Bunnie placed down the magazine on the table and pointed to a line of print. “It’s much worse than that. He’s Irish.”
The poster that used to be displayed in many English boarding houses
that stated, No Blacks, No Dogs, No Irish, prompted this story.
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