Page 35 of Wood

“Going for short of that fairway bunker that’s halfway,” I say with a chin lift towards the wet sand.

Ben pulls back in a gorgeous backswing and sends it flying. It starts low and boring, but the wind grabs it about a hundred and sixty yards out, and it drifts a good fifteen yards further right than we wanted.

“Hmph,” he growls. Mmm, love that growl. A shiver runs down my back. “Let's try the five.”

We swap again, and he sends another ball down. This one stays lower, truer to the path we want, but not perfect, not as far as we’d like.

“Try the four again, but choke it down,” I suggest, and we trade again.

A third ball sales down the course and this one is absolutely perfect.

“Well done,” I turn, smiling. “Nailed it.”

“Ok, then,” he says. “Mark it down, that’s our club for One in this wind, but choke it down.” He quirks his eyebrows at me and I huff a laugh, hoping no one noticed.

I make the note then wipe the club clean before sliding it into the bag as we walk in. The mist thickens again as we walk, blurring the white stones along the fairway edge until they’re just pale smudges in the gray. Somewhere out past the dunes, the horn on a buoy is going, slow and steady. It feels like just the two of us, alone in the mist.

We end the round with a book full of notes and the potential for at least ten under par. I’ll walk the course tomorrow morning to see where the new practice pins will be placed and we will do another round.

Ben is having dinner with a sponsor and his agent, so I’m heading into the village to eat at a pub, The Driftwood, with the other caddies. Once again, I am younger than any of them and won’t have much to talk about, but it’s part of the tradition.

With a discreet, black-painted entrance and a chalkboard displaying a smudged menu, The Driftwood is just off the main street. Inside it’s warm in that slightly too-warm pub way, low beamed ceiling strung with fairy lights left up from some previous season, sticky varnished tables, a fire going even though it’s July.

The burgers come stacked high with thick-cut chips on the side, served by a girl who’s clearly run off her feet with the tournament crowds. It’s loud, full of families and a few recognizable golf faces trying not to be recognized - they don’t have guard dogs, I smirk to myself. Someone’s kid is running between tables while the adults argue amiably about tee times and whether the wind will hold.

I finish my meal, settling my bill with a hefty tip to the harried waitress and wave as I step outside. I have hours to go before Ben will be done so I head to another place where it’ll be quiet.

A few doors down and around a corner, I spot a sign with a faded “Anchor and Hoop” and a chalk sign on the curb outside declaring “no chips, no bother.” Just beer, I assume that means. Exactly what I am looking for. I slip inside and pause to let my eyes adjust to the dimness.

Dark wood, low light, a long bar with taps that have clearly been pulled a hundred thousand times, the handles worn smooth. A few tables have clusters of older men on stools that they probably have sat on for twenty years. A TV on the wall is showing golf highlights with no one watching. The low murmur of conversation pauses as heads turn to look at me, but soon return to their own realm. Clearly, I am uninteresting. Perfect.

I slide onto a stool at the far end of the bar and ask for a pint of dark. The bartender is a rough man with thick strawberry blond fur on his arms and face, a dark beanie pulled tight over his head with blond strands sticking out around his ears. He nods and pulls the beer, pouring off the foam until he’s satisfied and slides it over. I take a deep sip and lean back, letting the quiet sink in.

The golf highlights replay Ben’s hole-in-one in the American Open, and I see my own face flash in the background. Look, Mom, I’m on TV. I’ll have to find that clip and send it to my ex-roommates. I start tapping into YouTube to find the video.

Three stools down, a young guy is getting louder, thick accent that turns “golf” into something with three syllables. He’s talking to the bartender, or maybe just to himself.

“Whole feckin’ town’s been shoved out for the week. Couldn’t get a table anyway for a bite, Paddy, feckin’ cameras and caravans every feckin’ where.”

I keep my eyes on my phone, sipping at my pint, flipping through YouTube. Not my argument.

“You here for it, aye?” He’s looking at me now. I didn’t notice the shift in his attention. Shit. “The circus.”

“Just having a pint,” I say. I say it plainly, no edge, steady, hoping calm is enough to end it, not looking up.

It isn’t. The chip on his shoulder is heavy. “Caddie, are ye. I can tell. Ye’ve got the look. Standing about all day carrying some feckin rich man’s bag.”

“Something like that,” I answer, still not looking up.

“Must be nice.” He’s closer now, moving to the stool next to me, close enough I can smell the last three pints on him. “Nice money for standing around.”

There’s no answer that will help here, so I say nothing. Ben does pay me very fucking well to carry his bag. Guilty as charged. Granted, there’s more to it, but this guy just wants an argument. I won’t give it to him.

He doesn’t like the quiet. He knocks my glass, not hard, just enough that the head slops over onto the bar and says, “Not talking? Maybe ye think yer too feckin’ good to talk to the likes o’ me?”

Sighing, I turn and look at him properly for the first time. Not angry or scared, just steady, the way I’d look at a dog I don’t trust. He’s thin with a straggly beard and oily blonde hair, missing a few teeth and the rest are wretchedly crooked.

“You’ve had a few,” I say, quiet, “and I’ve had a long day. Neither of us needs this. I’m just having a pint in a quiet pub, same as you.”