Dead on Course Read Free Page B

springs he would see.
    It was an unwelcome reflection, arriving unannounced to a mind that had not prepared defences against it. But at least it prompted him into activity, perhaps in an attempt to keep unwelcome reflections at bay. Through his window, he caught a glimpse of the most unlikely early riser in their party. With an abstracted air, Tony Nash, his yellow hair in uncharacteristic disarray, was wandering towards the course and the low eastern sun.
    Goodman went outside and sniffed the cool, clear air appreciatively. This was always the best time of day in spring and summer—once one had made the effort to get up and dressed. His days as a village boy in Norfolk came vividly back to him. Was it really half a century since those days when he had trailed behind farm labourers, who had seemed to his wide small boy ’s eyes so magnificently, impossibly strong?
    He stalked his man softly, enjoying seeing him start when he called from ten yards or so behind him, ‘Glad to see someone else couldn’t sleep either!’
    Tony Nash looked even worse than George felt. His eyes were dark with lack of sleep beneath the dishevelled hair, his clothing in uncharacteri stic disarray. He followed Goodman’s gaze, looked down and tucked away the light blue leisure shirt that was half in and half out of the band of his trousers. ‘Thought for a moment my flies must be undone!’ he said.
    ‘ You’re obviously not a morning person,’ said George. ‘I don’t think I am, any more.’ They walked without further exchange around the edge of the bowling green, watching the dew sparkling as the low sun began to burn it off. Nash, versed in the ways of the city, checked automatically that his car had not been stolen overnight. The movement gave Goodman an idea. Their clubs were in the cars. ‘What about a few holes before breakfast?’ he said.
    Nash was lighting a cigarette and he half-expected him to refuse. Instead, the younger man accepted the suggestion eagerly. He looked exhausted, as though he had slept even less than Goodman, but h e was full of a feverish energy which sought outlet in movement. In three minutes, they had their bags and trolleys out of the cars and were standing by the first tee.
    The course stretched appealingly before them, waiting to be conquered. Not a soul was in sight; there was just enough light breeze to flutter the distant flags and remind them that it was still not long after six. Their opening drives were well struck and bounced appealingly over the generous width of the first fairway. The world seemed a pleasing place, and they quite privileged within it.
    It could not last, of course. It did not take long for fallibility to creep into their play, and they played their usual quota of shots from rough and sand as they went along. But on a morning like this, playing without hindrance at their own brisk pace, it mattered less than usual. The only loud noise in their first hour was the call of a skein of wild geese over their heads at the highest part of the course. The two men watched the geese until they were almost invisible, studied for a moment the distant tower of the cathedral at Hereford as it emerged from the morning haze, and congratulated themselves upon their presence here at such an hour.
    As they played the eighth, two other residents crept sleepily on to the adjacent first tee, looking in awe at these two free-striding Titans who had been so far in front of what they had thought an early rising. Then there came the sound of the green keeper’s tractor moving from its shed within a copse of cedars; it must have been half a mile away, but it sounded unnaturally near in the prevailing silence. Soon they reached the part of the course that ran above the river, and a group of eight glistening black Labrador puppies provided them with much free entertainment as they ran in and out of the water on the far bank, shaking themselves enthusiastically around their philosophical owner.
    Tony Nash was