Loopy (18 page)

He got to his feet after what seemed an age, but a glance at his watch told him that he had been in the fort less than five minutes. As he left, he brought with him a sense of some indefinable power, a self-confidence such as he had never felt before.

Back in the car, O'Hara remarked, “I see you still believe in the old ways. Well, do you know something? All my life I used to laugh at that kind of thing. Wrote it off as ignorance and superstition—nothing more than a stupid legacy from pagan times. That is, until I saw the way you played golf after you had been in there.” Cocking a thumb back toward the fort, which was fast disappearing in the rearview mirror, O'Hara chuckled, “Now I'm not so sure. In fact, strictly between you and me, I might even try it myself one of these days.”

Loopy shrugged but said nothing. As they drove along the twisting roads, conversation was sporadic. O'Hara seemed listless most of the time. He would perk up briefly after stopping for a drink at one of the pubs that dotted the road between Trabane and Ballykissane. These were mostly small, whitewashed buildings with a thatched roof and a sign over the door that proclaimed them “licensed to sell beer and spirits.” At that time of the day, they were often the only people there, but that did not deter O'Hara in the least. Quite the opposite in fact.

“Best bloody time of the day for a drink,” he insisted. “No one around to talk nonsense at you!”

Loopy wondered if there was ever a bad time of the day—or night—for a drink where his traveling companion was concerned. Yet the stimulating effects of the drinks did not last long. In no time at all, O'Hara would lapse back into another long silence. All the while Loopy's thoughts kept returning to The Atlantic. Up to now he had been playing just for himself. Win or lose he had only himself to blame. Success or failure had been his alone. Now, for the first time, he alone was representing Trabane. It wasn't like the hurling team, where other players shared the credit or the blame. This time he was on his very own. He might have reflected that being accepted to play in The Atlantic was a notable victory in itself were he not still thinking about the new driver nestling in his bag.

*   *   *

Sure, he reminded himself, he might have been better off with the old one, but that was now broken beyond repair and that was that. A worry perhaps but no grounds for real concern. Anyway, he was hitting the ball better with the new one every day, he told himself, and all he needed was a bit more confidence in it. This would come, he thought, in the practice round the day before the tournament proper got under way, when past winners, sponsors' guests, and competitors would play together for The Plate. It was as much a social as a competitive occasion, and those competing in The Atlantic could invite a friend to play with them. This was how Pat O'Hara would fulfill the ambition of a lifetime by playing on the sacred turf of Ballykissane.

CHAPTER NINE

Better check in at the golf club first before we try to find this sister-in-law of mine. She told me over the phone how to find her place, but there was so much old talk out of her about everything under the sun that I never got 'round to writing it down.”

There was little difficulty in finding the clubhouse, however. To judge by the signposts, it seemed as though, sooner or later, all roads led to the famous links. Like Trabane, Ballykissane, too, was a seaside resort—but there the similarity ended. Driving down the main thoroughfare, even the usually impassive O'Hara was impressed by the elegance of the houses and the obvious wealth of their inhabitants. Striped green lawns, lovingly manicured and dotted with flowering shrubs, separated the homes from the tree-lined street. As they drove along the seafront, it seemed as though every house had a sea view, for Ballykissane stretched like a ribbon along the cliff top with only the road between it and the Atlantic.

Far below them, at the base of the tall, black cliffs, lay an unbroken stretch of golden sand. The sea was calm with a gently heaving surf sending tiny wavelets to lap the shoreline. Close to the cliff face but still on the beach stood a line of elderly bathing huts mounted on rusty wheels. Here modest bathers, fearful of offering even the smallest glimpse of bare flesh, could change into their bathing costumes safe from the ogling eyes of the day-trippers who descended on the peaceful resort at the weekend. The wheels allowed the huts to be trundled up the shingle to safety before the onset of the winter storms. Overhead, seagulls rode the thermals with wings outspread, their graceful ballet cut short by sudden dives into a sparkling sea. Mostly they would reemerge from the water with an empty beak, screeching furiously at their failure, with droplets sparkling like diamonds in the sunshine on their snow-white plumage.

When Tim Porter had brought Loopy here, they had skirted the town, still barely stirring itself into wakefulness after the long winter hibernation. The Royal Hotel, where they had stayed overnight, was beside the golf links, so Loopy had not seen Ballykissane until now. On this occasion, however, he had little choice but to examine it minutely, for O'Hara was set on exploring its every nook and cranny. Alternating between admiration and anger, he gave vent to his feelings with sporadic outbursts at what he called vulgar ostentation. Not for the first time Loopy wished his old teacher would use words he could understand properly.

“Jaysus, will you look at that place. Must have cost a bloody mint. That's what wrong with this bloody country, y'know…”

Unsure whether these remarks were directed at him, Loopy did not reply. He wished they could abandon the sightseeing and get to the clubhouse. There he would have to register for the tournament, find his locker, and most important, confirm that Weeshy had not suffered a last-minute change of heart and was still prepared to caddy for him.

Tim Porter had warned Loopy about Weeshy: “Bloody great caddy, that old fella, but mad as a hatter. Disappears for days on end and no one can find him. Drinks like a fish, of course.”

This was really something, Loopy fretted, coming as it did from Tim—who himself was no stranger to strong drink. At times like these, Loopy worried inwardly that his destiny seemed to be almost entirely in the hands of would-be alcoholics.

Alcohol, largely whiskey and stout, seemed to fuel every social occasion that Loopy had ever attended. Birthdays, funerals, christenings, weddings, or postmatch celebrations were all lubricated by vast quantities of booze. All too often they ended in tearful brawls with the next day spent nursing hangovers. The Lynch family was an exception to this. Loopy's father was a moderate drinker, gambling being his failing, and Brona had never taken alcohol in her life. As for Loopy, he simply did not like the taste of the stuff.

O'Hara was still ranting away as Loopy dragged himself back from his woolgathering to the here and now. “… too much power—and money—concentrated in too few hands. It's bloody religion, too, of course.”

Loopy was curious about this. “How so?”

“Obvious, when you really think about it. The native Irish, Catholics like you and me, have been under the heel of the Brits for over seven hundred bloody years. Easily known you never listened to a bloody word of history while you were in school. That,” O'Hara added glumly, “makes you no different from the rest of them, mind you. Anyway, when we stopped fighting the Brits, that didn't mean they gave us back all the big factories and the good jobs. No, sir, not by a long shot! Them that stayed on after the War of Independence still held on to the reins of power. They mightn't have made it quite as obvious as before that they were running the show, but they still held on to enough power to keep themselves in houses like these. And, it goes without saying, with more than enough money to play all the bloody golf they want.”

“Like Tim Porter?”

“Yeah,
exactly
like Tim. Not that he's the worst of 'em. Not by a long shot. More like his father, actually.”

“He seemed nice enough that time we went to see Tim when he was sick, remember?”

“Of course I remember,” O'Hara protested crossly, but Loopy was not to be put off so easily.

“Well, do you remember that it was Tim who had to convince
you
that I'd be okay to play in The Atlantic? Not the other way round?”

“H-m-m-m, you might have a point there. I've nothing against Tim, that's the truth. Except of course that he's got more money than sense.”

“That's not his fault. The money, I mean. He inherited it, didn't he?”

“That's true but—”

“I mean, you hardly expect him to give it back, do you?” Loopy persisted defiantly, determined to press home his advantage. It wasn't often he came out ahead of O'Hara in an argument.

“Do you know what's wrong with you, young fella?”

Loopy thought it best not to answer.

“You're getting so bloody smart you'll soon be passing yourself out!” Then O'Hara ruffled Loopy's hair to show that there were no hard feelings.

This was as close as O'Hara came to praise and Loopy knew it. He only wished his mentor would take better care of his health, because everyone at the Golf Club said he was drinking himself into an early grave. The thought of this terrified Loopy—now more than ever. In the long silences during the drive from Trabane, he realized for the first time how dependent he was on this frail figure of a man. Despite his gruff exterior and a tendency to become irascible when drunk, he had always been a rock of good sense where Loopy's future was concerned.

When O'Hara had finally come to accept that his pupil was never going to finish school because of circumstances outside his control, instead of bemoaning the fact the schoolteacher had set about preparing him for what was to come. Of late there had been less talk of
knowledge is power, my lad.
Instead O'Hara dinned into Loopy at every opportunity that the strength he imagined he got from his visits to the old fort came, in reality, from within. While Loopy was yet to be fully convinced of this, he had the good sense to realize that O'Hara was trying to instill in him a self-confidence that had, until recently, been conspicuous by its absence. When Joe Delany had told him that he was as good as the best of the competitors and better than most, that, too, had provided the extra fillip he needed to approach The Atlantic with a positive mind. Just then, a wooden sign announced
BALLYKISSANE GOLF CLUB
—1
MILE
.

The road hugged the cliff, and when they looked back over their shoulders, they had a stunning view of a fairy-tale village perched high on a cliff, overlooking a golden beach fringed by a placid sea. They crossed a humpbacked bridge over a stream that meandered through giant sand dunes. It flowed across the beach, splitting into a hundred tiny rivulets, before vanishing forever into the sea. From the top of the bridge, the golf course was suddenly there before them, laid out in all its glory. Now, instead of the stream, ribbonlike green fairways threaded their way through the enormous sand dunes. Occasionally red or yellow pennants peeped out from behind a sand dune to indicate a putting green. Overhead, against a backdrop of pale blue sky recently laundered by a passing rain shower, shrieking gulls mocked the best efforts of little knots of golfers who were making their way around the hostile moonscape that was the famed Ballykissane golf links.

The clubhouse nestled snugly among the sandhills. Loopy had never seen anything remotely like it. It was a huge, rambling structure, built largely of timber. Three stories high and topped by twin weather vanes that shifted uneasily in the breeze, it was nonetheless dwarfed by the towering dunes that surrounded it. White-painted balconies of ornately carved wood sprouted from its upper windows. From these, tiny figures lounged in wicker chairs, sipping drinks as they gazed nonchalantly down on the golfers below doing battle with the elements.

O'Hara parked the car in the visitors' carpark and they walked the short distance to the front door in silence. A polished brass plate informed them that gentlemen must wear jacket, collar, and tie within the clubhouse. Luckily Tim Porter had forewarned them of this, otherwise they would have been turned away by the gruff man at the door.

“Yes, gentlemen, how can I help you?” The question was barked out like a drill sergeant's on a parade ground.

O'Hara, determined not to be put down, responded with an equal lack of warmth, “We're here for The Atlantic. Show us where we sign in.” He didn't actually say
and he quick about it,
but it was implicit in his tone of voice.

The drill sergeant eyed both of them speculatively, as if checking them for concealed weapons, then with a jerk of his head muttered, “Follow me.”

He set a brisk pace across the parquet floor of the front hall, through swing doors that led into the reception area. Pausing only to wordlessly direct them toward the reception desk, he executed a smart, military about-turn before disappearing back through the swing doors.

O'Hara muttered to Loopy, “A sour bollix, isn't he? Hope the rest of 'em are better than him.”

Loopy nodded and went over to the girl behind the desk. “Laurence Lynch, miss. Trabane Golf Club.”

In contrast to the doorman, the girl was politeness itself. “Welcome to Ballykissane, Mr. Lynch. Is this your first time competing in The Atlantic?”

“Yes, it is, miss.”

“Well, the very best of luck. I only asked because, as it is your first time here, I'll explain where the locker rooms are. You're in locker number forty-three, by the way. Just through that door there, the one marked
LOCKER ROOMS
. I have the time sheet for tomorrow's Plate here. Now, let me see.… Here it is—Laurence Lynch and Patrick O'Hara, is that right?… Good, well, you are both off the first tee tomorrow morning at nine fifteen a.m. Breakfast is served in the dining room from seven thirty should you wish to avail of it. That seems to be everything, Mr. Lynch. Enjoy your time at Ballykissane.… Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. There's a message for you.”