The Hacker (Volume One)

  5 - Rubens

  The crowd of members parted to allow the player through. The ball hadn’t quite reached the short grass of the fairway, however it was sitting up invitingly in the semi-rough.

  “At last,” said Viscount Waffham as he saw the nice lie, “now we can get some yardage under our belt. Three wood please, Johnnie.”

  The flat base of the wood nestled nicely below the ball at address, encouraging the Viscount to send his seventh shot rifling down the centre of the fairway to the accompaniment of cheers that grew louder as the ball sailed over the lurking trap. In normal play the next shot requires careful consideration. With a mammoth bunker straddling the width of the entire fairway, it was positioned with uncanny accuracy to gather any eager attempt at greed. But having played his first shot to the hole from a hundred yards in front of the tee, the Viscount had no such concern.

  “Just go straight for the green?” suggested Lamplighter.

  “I think so, it’s a shame I can’t bear right and go closer to the lake but the last time I was in the rough on that side it was almost up to my knees,” replied Waffham. “Once we get to the green we can then try and gauge which way around the house looks the easiest option.”

  “That’s a no-brainer,” replied Lamplighter, “around the lake side without doubt. Try and favour the right hand side of the green.”

  “Agreed,” said the player, once again taking out his favoured three wood. But this time the ball wasn’t sitting on such a fluffy lie and with the fear of the long rough also poisoning his mind he turned his hands over slightly and the ball veered off on a right to left trajectory.

  “Get out of them!” shouted the Viscount as his ball continued to turn, like a heat seeking missile, towards the coven of three deadly pot bunkers to the left of the green.

  The synchronized movement of craned necks and heads followed the flight. Falling just short of the first bunker, the ball bounced up and over the sunken trap and headed towards the larger hazard behind it.

  “Go! Go!” shouted Viscount Waffham, waving his club like a whip. Perhaps invigorated by the verbal stimulus the ball managed to leap the next bunker as well, making landfall on the inclined front lip. The jubilant cries of the One Hundred withered in their throats as they watched the ball wobble and then start to roll backwards towards the sand. But then it stopped.

  “How the hell did it stop there?” asked Lamplighter.

  “I’ve no idea,” replied the Viscount, already speeding down the fairway before it got rolling again, “but I’m not complaining!”

  The ball had somehow come to rest half way down the closely mown bank at the front of the bunker. Defying gravity it was sitting up beautifully on the forty-five degree grass.

  As soon as he got there Viscount Waffham immediately jumped down into the bunker and positioned himself so that he was looking up the line of the incline. Closing one eye he could see, over the tips of the green manicured blades, the pitched tip of the hall, flanked by blackened chimneys.

  “You’re not thinking what I’m thinking are you?” smiled the caddie from above.

  “It’s like a V1 launch pad. It’s absolutely perfect, aiming straight over the top,” replied Viscount Waffham animatedly as Lamplighter jumped down into the bunker to join him.

  “Too tempting to resist,” agreed the caddie, pushing his face up to the lip and squinting his eye to the line. “You need to aim just over those little holes at the top of the hall.”

  “Bullet holes,” stated Chives from close by.

  “Bullet holes?” exclaimed Waffham.

  “A little parting gift from the German Messerschmitt that came down during the war.”

  “The unknown airmen?”

  “The very same,” affirmed Chives.

  “I never did understand why the old man forked out on a memorial for them, they tried to blow the place to smithereens,” said the Viscount. “Now, how far to clear the lot, Johnnie?”

  “Got to be a good couple of hundred yards,” replied the caddie.

  “At least I don’t have to worry about loft, another blow with the three wood me thinks,” said the heir, beckoning for the club with his hand.

  It was only as he addressed the ball that he realized how awkward his stance was. Luckily the ball had come to rest towards the left hand side of the hazard and as a right-hander he was able to stand with his feet down the side of the bunker. But the incline meant that his left foot was about two foot higher than his right causing his weight to tilt him backwards. As he attempted a couple of practice swings, he just managed to stop himself from tumbling down into the bunker. Pausing over the ball with intense concentration, he tried to clear his mind of the gaping hole beside him and to make a committed stroke. But as he swung, his weight immediately transferred over to his right. Instead of striking the ball normally he was so unbalanced that he struck the ball on the up. The connection itself was good, a crisp satisfying crack coming off the face of the club. However, rather than gaining height from the loft of the wood it just fired off the grassy ramp which was never going to be enough to get it over the hall. Just like the bullets of yesteryear the ball shot straight for the uppermost part of the hall, clearing Old Bogy with ease. But once over the tree it started to lose momentum and began to dip. There was a collective intake of breath as the direction of the ball became clear to all watching on.

  “Oh bugger,” cursed Viscount Waffham as it smashed through the uppermost panel of the arched window to the Coral Hall. Even from where they all stood they could hear the sound of glass shards crashing to the stone floor.

  “Nine,” called Bill awkwardly.

  “More like nine hundred in repairs,” bemoaned the Viscount, “this flipping challenge is going to cost me a bloody fortune.” He threw the club in the direction of Lamplighter and followed the members as they flowed around the ancient tree and converged on the hall.

  Crunching over the broken shards the members swarmed into the Coral Hall. Viscount Waffham followed, the metal studs of his shoes clacking upon the stone floor. He tiptoed over the glass slithers resisting the temptation to look up at the jagged hole in the window.

  With the ground floor of the Coral Hall devoid of any furniture it was immediately clear that the ball must have come to rest on one of the twin balconies that joined the top of the grand staircase to the rooms on the north face of the building. Russet blazers swept up the steps and split in either direction.

  “Got it!” shouted one eventually from the right hand balcony. The Viscount looked up to see a man, leaning over the black iron railings that ran between each of the fluted columns, pointing ominously down to the ledge on the other side of the balustrade.

  On each side of the hall, five columns rose majestically to the heavens. At their base they sat upon a square slab of matching stone. The ornate railings were attached to the centre of these columns leaving a nine-inch ledge isolated on the other side of the barricade. The ball had come to rest on this narrow outcrop, teetering on the edge of the drop to the main floor of the hall below.

  “How the hell did it get there?” queried the Viscount after he had climbed the stairs and leant over the rail to see his ball.

  “More like how the bloody hell did it stay there?” added Lamplighter looking on helplessly, peering through the wrought iron fronds.

  The Viscount clasped the smooth wooden handrail and gave the barricade a shake.

  “Don’t even think of trying to climb over,” exclaimed the caddie, “you’ll break your neck, it’s barely a foot wide! You’ve got no choice but to prod it over the edge from here.”

  “But it’s such a waste of a shot,” moaned Viscount Waffham, still eyeing up the gap. “I guess you’re right,” he sighed after a moment’s more thought, “pass me the putter.”

  Getting down on to his knees he held the putter like a snooker cue and poked it in between the foliage shaped metal. He ducked his head to look along his makeshift cue as he slid the club back and forth in the hollow b
etween his thumb and forefinger. Once content he took his shot and popped it over the edge. The ball struck the solid floor below with a hollow knock before leaping back into the air. The rebound almost climbed back to the height of the balcony before gravity once again got the upper hand and the ball fell earthwards. Over and over the ball yo-yoed up and down, each leap growing smaller than the last before it struck the edge of one of the tiles and it skewed off at an acute angle. The ball pinged off the pink stonewall and began to ricochet around the lower floor. All eyes were glued to the little white globe as it began to lose speed and roll lazily around the floor. Eventually it stopped up against one of the marble walls, its glossy cover touching the swirling patterned surface.

  “This is going from bad to worse,” complained the Viscount, making his way down the stone steps. He paused in the middle of the room and looked up to the pro shop. “I’ve got to get it to here,” he said, pointing to the centre of the floor, “I can then chip it up into the pro shop and out through the Portico Terrace.” Still with putter in hand he leant against the wall and hovered the sole of the club an inch above the ball. Barely moving his arm he practiced a few jerks as he tried to gauge how hard to hit the ball. Eventually he stabbed down on the side of the ball furthest from the marble wall and with a low grumble the ball began to roll.

  “Ooops,” grimaced Viscount Waffham as soon as he hit it, watching as the ball rolled with ease across the smooth surface, immediately passing the centre of the room. “Stop you bloody thing,” he shouted in vain as it slowly trundled on until it softly struck the opposite side and came to rest twelve inches from the wall.

  “Eleven!” called Bill.

  “That’s better,” encouraged Lamplighter.

  “Better?” challenged Waffham. “Better for a southpaw maybe but no good for a poor old right hander. I still can’t get a club at it,” he went on, trying to squeeze himself up against the wall to see if he could make a stance.

  “Maybe not this go,” admitted his caddie, “but at least you can now address the ball properly with your putter. It’ll be much easier to gauge the speed. You’ve only got to give it a tiny little tap and it will roll into a perfect position.”

  This time the Viscount took much longer practicing, gently rocking his arms back and forth in a smooth pendulum motion. Once he was confident he nestled in behind his ball and gave it a little tap.

  “Twelve!” The word resonated around the hall as the ball rolled softly forward and fell into one of the grout lines between tiles. It continued along the straight line before coming to rest in the cross hair joint of four tiles, smack bang in the middle of the room.

  “Per-fection!” smacked Lamplighter in a French accent, kissing his fingers.

  “Now we’re talking!” enthused Viscount Waffham, running behind the line of his ball and looking up into the pro shop.

  Despite being in the perfect position the next shot was still a difficult one. At the top of the stairs were two last columns that formed the end of the balconies that flanked the space. These twin sentinels were no more than three to four yards apart, barely wider than the doorway itself.

  “If you go with anything too lofted,” said Lamplighter from behind, “you’ll take out that bloke above the door,” he pointed to a small marble bust housed directly above the doorway in the base of a carved golden apse.

  “That is of course one of your ancestors, Sir,” interrupted Chives, “the first Earl Orbury, the man who built this great house.”

  “Well I certainly wouldn’t want to upset great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandpapa or whatever he is. Plus I can ill afford to kiss good bye to another couple of grand,” said the Viscount with a nod back to the broken window. “What are you thinking, seven iron?”

  “Difficult to say, you can’t exactly take a big divot,” said Lamplighter, tapping his foot on the solid floor, the stomp echoing about them. “If you’re not careful you’ll slam it straight into the stairs and it’ll go flying back out the way you’ve just been. Maybe an eight?”

  The Viscount paused for a moment as the gathered members of the One Hundred craned their necks over the balcony to catch his reply. “Agreed,” he said at last and held out his hand for the club.

  Instinctively Chives shrank back a few steps as the heir rehearsed a few half swings, the club striking the stone floor with the odd spark.

  “Here goes,” called the Viscount, “shit or bust!” With that he swung back and struck at the ball. The connection was lovely and its angle of assent perfectly mirrored the rise of the stairs. However the line was slightly askew and by the time it reached the doorway to the pro shop it was a yard off centre and it struck the carved marble architrave with a crack.

  “Fore!” shouted Chives as all onlookers instantly ducked for cover, throwing their arms over their heads.

  The ball cannoned back at an angle and struck the left hand column before deflecting off one of its flutes and rebounding across the top of the stairs and smacking into the twin pillar on the right. Only Viscount Waffham had stayed upright and he followed the erratic path of his ball as it careered off the last obstacle that miraculously diverted it back towards the doorway.

  “Never in doubt!” he cried joyfully as it first bounced and then rolled onto the Axminster clad floor of the upper room to cheers from the gallery.

  From inside the pro shop Vic Peters bobbed over the counter, his eyes wide in surprise as a ball came flying into the room followed by a crescendo of noise.

  “What the hell...” he muttered as out of nowhere a mass of russet clad members came pouring into the room, their eyes glued to the floor.

  “Here it is!” cried one of them, his head thrust between two merchandise racks.

  The Viscount pushed through the crowd, looked at his lie and began to survey the room for options.

  In complete opposition to the architectural coldness of the Coral Hall the pro shop was warm and sumptuous. It was a large room, topped with a high lofted ceiling of octagonal panels decorated with carved gilded sunflowers. The walls were resplendent in a plum colored material made from wool, linen and silk, the surface woven with golden flowers. The ball had come to a stop beside the right hand fireplace, its way to the terrace blocked by the large mahogany counter.

  “Can it be moved?” asked Lamplighter, turning to Chives. Before the secretary had time to answer an ageing gang descended on the furniture and started to grunt and wheeze as they tried to raise it from the floor.

  At that moment Brunswick emerged from the bar on the left hand side of the room, carrying a silver tray laden with a bottle and some charged glasses.

  “To my knowledge the counter has stood in that exact same spot for a hundred and fifty years,” said the Steward, “I suspect you’ll find that it may prove a little too stubborn to move.”

  The Viscount’s eyes widened at the Steward’s cargo. “Ah, Brunswick, perfect timing as ever. A little halfway house schniffter I see.” He took a glass and sunk its amber contents in one gulp, his face twitching with fiery pleasure. “Well if the damn thing won’t budge I’ll just have to bounce it off the far cushion,” he concluded with an elaborate thrust of an imaginary cue.

  The Steward gave a little cough.

  “Problem, Brunswick?” enquired the heir.

  “Far be it for me to tell you how to spend your money Sir. But on account of the fact that the glazier is already on his way, I wouldn’t like to be calling out the insurance company as well,” he said pointing to the painting hanging on the wall.

  “Is it worth a few quid?” interjected Lamplighter suddenly.

  “That, Mr. Lamplighter, is a Rubens,” replied Brunswick simply. Viscount Waffham and his caddie exchanged unknowing glances.

  “I believe one of his other paintings sold recently at auction for nine million pounds,” said Chives, taking his own glass from the Steward.

  “Nine Million!” The two men screamed in unison.

  Brunswick gave a littl
e smile. “I wonder if perhaps Sir would forgive my impudence, but I suggest he considers bouncing his ball off another wall?”

  “I’m too bloody scared to even swing the club now,” replied the Viscount, “anything else I should worry about?”

  “You might want to be a tad careful on your back swing,” said Chives casually. “The painting of one of your forebears might also dent your wallet should it end up on the wrong end of your pitching wedge.”

  “Another Rubens?” asked Lamplighter excitedly.

  “Alas no,” replied Chives, “merely a Gainsborough.”

  “Shame,” said Waffham.

  “Shame indeed, it is after all probably only worth around seven.”

  “Thousand?”

  “Million.”

  “The two great treasures of The Orbury,” added Brunswick proudly.

  “Dear God, I can’t play a full shot from in here. Johnnie, give me back my putter for heaven’s sake.” With that the heir tapped the ball softly a couple of times to manoeuvre between the racks and end up in front of the doors to the Portico Terrace.

  “Shot number fifteen,” announced Bill, before adding, “halfway to the pin, Sir.”

  “Halfway? It feels like I’ve played thirty-six holes already.”

  The south-facing end of the pro shop has five tall arched windows looking out on to the terrace and straight down the line of the first fairway. As soon as the ball came to rest a couple of members slid up the window and unclasped the mechanism to open the gap below. Viscount Waffham’s lie was at the very epicenter of the estate. South from this point, through the gap in the centre columns of the portico sat the extensive first tee that was laid out in the curve of the ornamental gardens before the terrace. In the distance, again in perfect alignment stood the tall imposing structure of the Memorial to the Unknown Airmen. Back in the direction already played, the linear placement was completed by the memorial to the fifth Earl that stood guardian to the eighteenth tee.

  The Viscount stood staring at the gap between the columns. Lamplighter came up behind him. “It’s a bit tight,” said the heir.

  “Nonsense,” replied the caddie, “you’ve got a perfect lie so just aim for the memorial in the distance and give it a blast. Surely a job for the three wood?”

  “Are you mad?” replied the Viscount, “too much loft and bang goes another window. Not to mention the possibility of hitting one of them columns and then whizzing back into one of them paintings!”

  “Don’t say you’ve let the old bugger spook you?” teased the caddie with a nod to Chives who was already out on the terrace with Bill Muir.

  “With due respect I think you’ll find it’s got more to do with the sixteen million quids worth of paintings. B-Besides, I suddenly feel very...” he struggled to find the correct word, “I suddenly realize the enormity of what is happening. I-It’s all on my shoulders now Johnnie,” he finished softly.

  Lamplighter leaned close and spoke in a whisper. “Our shoulders Bertie. But all that pressure and worry is for another day. Today you can be carefree. Besides, what’s insurance for anyway, eh?”

  Viscount Waffham took a deep breath. “I always was the cautious one between us. But of course you are right. Live for the moment eh? Take the bull by the horns!”

  “That’s it!” encouraged the caddie, ripping the head cover off the three wood, an action that sent the watching members of the One Hundred scurrying for cover again, “grip it and rip it!”

  Standing over the ball the Viscount took a last look around, only to discover that there wasn’t another person in sight.

  “Peters?” he called out into the emptiness.

  At first there was silence but after a few seconds there came a bodiless reply.

  “Sir?”

  “Where are you man?”

  Again a few moments elapsed before a head nervously ventured over the parapet of the counter.

  “If this ball comes flying back towards them paintings, I’ll double your wages if you stop it from hitting them. Deal?”

  “Maybe,” blurted the professional before snapping his head back down to safety.

  Back over the ball the Viscount stepped a foot to the side and took a swipe. “Bit of a bald lie, any chance of teeing it up?” he asked to no one in particular.

  “No,” came the invisible response from Bill Muir.

  Waffham shrugged before resting the club softly on the antique floor covering. With a turn of his shoulders he chopped down on the back of the ball and smashed it towards the terrace. Whilst arrow straight it started low, no more than a foot off the floor though rising. The gaps between the portico columns we’re filled with identical plant boxes, their contents a beautiful blaze of red. Rising just enough to clear the lip of the central ceramic pot the ball burst into the flowering display and sent a shower of red petals into the air. Stunted by the scarlet blooms the ball lost impetus and bounced across the formal grounds in front of the portico. Like a skimming stone across water each bounce got shorter, narrower and slower until with a final small hop the ball jumped over a small stonewall and plopped into the ornamental pond.

  “Bugger!” cursed the Viscount, “who put that bloody thing there? Nobody answer that!” he added sourly as he stomped back into the pro shop and proceeded to the nearest stairs down to the network of corridors that traversed the lower level below the grand rooms above.

  The pond is set in the heart of the formal gardens and lay directly behind the first tee. At its centre a large sculpture of St. George who is about to slay the dragon. The great beast has wound its tail around a ragged rock and its head is thrown back firing a plume of water skyward from its gaping mouth. St. George is carved standing over the dragon; his arms raised back to deliver the killing blow. But instead of a great sword hefted in his hands, there is a golf club and the patron saint stands frozen forever in a beautiful follow through.

  By the time the Viscount got to the pond it was surrounded by russet ball spotters peering into the rippling surface. As well as water cascading from the dragon it also gushes from the open mouths of dolphins at the base of the rock and a ring of swans and fishes facing back at the titanic struggle.

  “I presume you don’t need me to actually go in and fetch the thing to get a drop out?” said Waffham turning to Chives.

  The secretary squirmed. “I fear this might be a bit awkward, Sir.”

  “Awkward?” challenged the heir.

  “I think you’ll find that it’s not actually a water hazard,” continued Chives, turning to try and seek Bill for help only to see him still back up on the terrace finishing off his drink.

  “Are you mad?” went on Waffham, “it’s about two feet deep so it’s hardly casual water!”

  “What I mean is there are no stakes.”

  “Well that’s hardly his fault!” joined in Lamplighter.

  “You see, it’s behind the tee so it’s not normally in play.”

  “Well it is now,” continued the caddie.

  “You’re not seriously suggesting that I play it as it lies are you?” asked the Viscount. “Or that it’s a lost ball?”

  “It’s hardly lost! I can see it from here,” said Lamplighter pointing over the edge of the pond wall.

  “I really think we’d better wait for Bill, after all, he is the rules guru.”

  Lamplighter threw up his arms in frustration. “We can’t hang around for that old duffer or we’ll be here all day. I’ll get the ruddy thing if no one else will!” With that he undid his laces and removed his shoes before peeling off his orange stockings and then vaulting the little wall to pluck the ball from the water’s bed.

  “Problem?” said Bill Muir finally catching them up as Lamplighter withdrew a sodden arm and tossed the ball to his friend.

  “Adjudication needed,” said Chives as Lamplighter climbed back out, “water hazard or not?”

  “Good point,” replied the Competition Secretary, furrowing his brow.

  “There aren’t any stakes,??
? added Chives.

  “Yes alright,” complained the Viscount, “don’t lead the witness!”

  Bill paused before making up his mind. “Well, one thing’s for sure, it’s full of water and it is something of a hazard,” he mused lightly with a nod to Lamplighter who was sat on the wall drying his feet with the towel from the side of the bag, “therefore I think that Rule 33-2 applies,” he concluded confidently, followed by silence from those around him.

  “And?” prompted the Viscount, “we’re not all like you, sad bastards who sleep with the rule book, would you care to elaborate?”

  “Sorry, yes, of course. Rule 33-2. The course. Sub section ‘a’; defining bounds and margins. It states that the Committee must define accurately (i), the course and out of bounds. (ii) The margins of water hazards and lateral water hazards.”

  Another silence.

  “Nope, I’m afraid you are going to have to drive this one home,” said the Viscount, indicating the bank of confused faces looking on.

  “In other words,” went on Bill, “just because it has never come into play in a hundred and fifty years, it is within the bounds of the course and by rights should have been correctly identified as a water hazard by the Committee. As far as I’m concerned you can take a drop.”

  “Hooray!” scoffed Waffham. “At last some common sense.”

  “But alas,” went on Bill, “I fear we still have a problem.”

  The smile dropped from the heir’s face. “Go on,” he invited.

  “Did you give authority for your caddie to lift the ball from the water hazard?”

  “I’m not a lap dog. I can make my own decisions,” snapped Lamplighter as he popped an orange clad leg back into his shoe. “I am a responsible adult,” he finished sarcastically.

  “As I suspected, it appears you did not,” Bill said to Waffham.

  “What difference does that make? We just established that I get a drop.”

  “I’m afraid you fall foul of Rule 18-2a.”

  “Come again?”

  “It is covered in the book of Decisions on the Rules of Golf. Rule 26 reference one oblique nine. Question: A player’s ball lying in a water hazard is lifted by the player’s caddie without the player’s authority. What is the ruling? Answer: The player incurred a one-stroke penalty when his caddie lifted the ball - Rule 18-2a. The player may either replace the ball as required-”

  “Put it back in there?” exclaimed the Viscount, “are you taking the piss?”

  “Or,” continued Bill, “proceed under Rule 26-1 and incur an additional one stroke penalty under that rule.”

  “You know what?” said Viscount Waffham. “You can stick this book of decisions up where the sun don’t shine. And as for rule twenty-six sodding one or whatever you said, you can stick that up there as well! Why don’t you just stick the ball wherever you want and I’ll hit it,” he said, tossing the ball to Bill.

  “That’s most irregu-”

  Chives put his hand up to stop his friend from going on. “Here, give it to me before he puts a seven iron over your head.” Taking the ball he stood behind the pond. “Obviously we can’t see the pin but we know it’s somewhere more or less in that direction,” he said pointing into the distance at an angle of about one o’clock, “so anywhere back on this line,” he said stepping backwards, keeping the pond and the distant hidden pin in alignment as he went. He walked about ten paces until he came to the end of the grass surrounding the pond, stopping short of the gravel path. Extending out his arm at shoulder height he dropped the ball onto the beautifully mown surface.

  “There you go you Sir, I think you’ll find your playing nineteen.”

  Viscount Waffham scowled over to Bill. “If I lose by one shot then I will hold you personally responsible. You and your bloody rules!”

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  SECTION 2: The Hacker

  1: I think I know what I’m doing wrong….