FREDERICK MORGAN

Greenwich 1930s On the porch overlooking the eighteenth green blind Mrs Adams rocked back and forth grinning, and sipping her tea. Her nurse-companion, white-uniformed, sucked peppermints beside her. At the next table: ‘Isn’t she splendid? Past eighty-eight and as mean as can be. Skewered old Charles on her cane last Monday. How that nurse stands her, I have no idea.’ Shrieks and cheers from the pool, where Roger Ambler was ducking Ellen ONeill. Feeling soft breasts against his forearm he loosed his hold. The girl slipped free - then wheeled clean about in a shower of spray and slapped his head hard with the flat of her hand. ’You God-damned lout!‘ . . . She choked with laughter. My daughters seem happy this afternoon, thought Mrs ONeill beside the en tout cas where Susan was rallying with the Rinaldis and Joe the pro. ’Watch your backhand, dear.’ ’Oh mummy, go away! You make me nervous.‘ Sue missed an overhead at the net, but Joe, like a cat, had scrambled behind her and lobbed the ball deep. ’Stay up there,’ he shouted, ’and cover that alley. Don’t let him pass you!’ Meanwhile, fresh chirpings from the porch: a man in street clothes was walking the fairways! ’He’s not carrying clubs, doesn’t look like a member - what’s he doing out there all dressed in black? Call the manager, someone. Quickly!’ No need. It was only the Smythes’ chauffeur, a new one who didn‘t know the rules (the word came back ten minutes later). Mrs Adams stirred . . . She felt a small chill as the five o’clock wind came drifting in from the Sound - and clutched a shawl to her shoulders. ’Come along, dear booby,’ she hissed to the nurse, ‘get me moving. It’s time to go home.’