Shes certainly quite a character, Gene murmurs as Nessa lifts up the back of her dress, pulls the hem over her forehead and commences wearing it as a kind of half-veil, beaming all the while.
Shes completely brazen! Valentine chuckles. Brimming with confidence! Life has a nasty habit of knocking the stuffing out of people She gazes up at him, appealingly.
I take your point, Gene concedes, although I do think that when girls reach a certain age He pauses, cautiously. And I have a daughter of my own, so Im speaking from painful experience here These things can occasionally start to develop if youre not extremely careful into something rather more uh something rather more
But shes still just a baby! Valentine repeats.
Yes. She is. Absolutely Gene clears his throat. Its simply that the other children in the group the boys, in particular
Gene focuses, intently, on the aspidistra. He cant quite believe hes having this conversation.
The boys? Valentines brows rise.
Yeah. Yeah. The older boys, Gene murmurs. Its nothing explicit, nothing just a a particular kind of well a certain kind of of atmosphere
An atmosphere? Valentine looks shocked. An atmosphere? she repeats, lifting a tentative hand to the back of her head.
Yeah Gene follows the progress of the hand from the corner of his eye (its an attractive hand soft and graceful, with lean, tapering fingers. An artistic hand, he suddenly thinks, switching, automatically, into palm-reading mode, a conic hand ). Yeah he repeats, blinking. I mean theyre certainly not doing anything anything inappropriate, theyre just naturally uh inquisitive. Just registering an an idle interest, so to speak. Theres nothing nothing specifically wrong about it not exactly yet it still feels slightly well he winces slightly whats the word? I dont know slightly, uh, well, unsavoury
Unsavoury? Valentine snorts, incredulous. Bloody hell! Theyre only kids, for heavens sake!
Absolutely! Gene insists. Completely! he reaffirms. I mean it would be ridiculous stupid, ludicrous to blow this thing all out of
Wouldnt it, though? Valentine interrupts, tartly.
Gene winces, stung.
Im sorry, she immediately apologizes.
No. Gene shakes his head. Its fine. I probably deserved that. Ive overstepped the mark.
A strange pulse passes between them.
It just seems like a sad reflection of the modern world, Valentine finally volunteers, if an innocent, little girl, a child, cant just
If youll forgive me for saying so, Gene promptly interrupts her (his confidence burgeoning, exponentially, as the discussion moves from the personal to the generic), this isnt really about the relative goodness or badness of the world. Its not a complex social or philosophical issue, its purely a pragmatic one a practical one. Its essentially about accepting our responsibility as adults. Children need protecting as much from themselves as from other people protecting from their own innocence, even
As Gene speaks, a commotion becomes audible in the street outside. A vehicle pulls up at the kerb, the engine cuts out, car doors slam, the gate creaks, footsteps can be heard tramping up the garden path (and voices, engaged in lively conversation).
Valentine gives no indication of having noticed, though. She continues to stare up at him, totally engrossed in what hes saying, her lips moving as his lips move, her hands knitted together so tightly that the knuckles are whitening. On noticing her hands the stress in them Gene suddenly loses the strand of what hes saying. He glances over towards the door. I should probably uh he mutters, gesticulating.
Valentine says nothing for a few seconds and then, Yes, she murmurs, her voice unexpectedly flat and colourless. Gene turns and takes a small step forward.
Wait !
Valentine reaches out her arm and touches his shoulder. He spins around, as if stung. She pulls his ring off her finger and offers it to him. He takes it from her. He starts to say something something off the cuff, something low and intense and curiously heartfelt then the door flies open and his words are swiftly obliterated in the ensuing commotion.
Shouldnt you be at school or something?
They are standing in the garden together inspecting a large, tarpaulin-covered vehicle. Ransom has thrown on his jeans again (in haste one of the pockets is hanging out) along with an antique, military cap and matching jacket (hes still resolutely bare-chested underneath it). The uniform he unearthed (mere moments earlier) in the hallway cupboard as Stan hastily disposed of the mop and bucket.
The caps a perfect fit, but the jackets strong, sepia-coloured fabric forms two taut ridges between his shoulder blades and creaks a fusty protest from beneath his armpits.
Ive got the day off, actually, Stanislav swanks.
Really? Ransom starts grappling, ham-fistedly, with the tarpaulin. Howd you manage to wrangle that, then?
School Exchange Programme. The teenager tries (and fails) to look nonchalant. Im flying to Krakow this afternoon. For a month.
Ah, Krakow. Ransom smiles, dreamily. Theres a fabulous Ronald Fream course in Krakow. The Krakow Valley Golf and Country Club. Ever played there?
Stan shakes his head.
Well you should definitely check it out if you get the opportunity. Its fuckin amazing. Theres this crazy almost I dunno Jurassic feel to the landscape. The tee distance is incredible something like six and a half thousand
Im actually more into basketball myself, Stan interrupts, pushing aside a couple of the tarpaulins supporting bricks with a pristine-trainered toe.
Basketball? Ransom is nonplussed. Dyou play at all?
As he speaks he instinctively starts feeling around inside the pocket of the jacket for his cigarettes, but ends up gingerly withdrawing an old, red tassel heavily faded of the kind that might be attached to a trumpet or bugle. He stares at it for a moment, perplexed, then shoves it away again, frowning.
I started the school team, Stan volunteers.
Really? Ransom appraises him, quizzically. But surely youre way too short to take it seriously? I mean how tall are you? He quickly sizes him up: Five foot four? Five foot five?
I started the school team, Stan volunteers.
Really? Ransom appraises him, quizzically. But surely youre way too short to take it seriously? I mean how tall are you? He quickly sizes him up: Five foot four? Five foot five?
Basketballs huge in Europe right now, Stan mutters (as if his chosen sports burgeoning size on the international scene must, inevitably, have some significant bearing on his own admittedly diminutive status), and its really massive in the old Eastern Bloc: the Russians just cant get enough of it.
They friggin love it in China, Ransom volunteers, and lets face it he shrugs, obligingly theyre pretty much all short-arses over there.
Stan gazes at the golfer, balefully, as if awaiting a punchline (or better still a sheepish retraction of some kind). None is forthcoming.
I used to love shooting hoops as a kid, Ransom reminisces, but golf was always destined to be my game of choice. I suppose you could say it was written in the stars He waves a lordly hand, heavenward. I mean I was sporting mad, in general; played footie, rugby, had a stunt-bike, skated, skateboarded. We lived alongside this small, public course in Ilkley. I started caddying for my dad just about as soon as I could toddle. Then, after inheriting my grandads old clubs when I was around four or five, I started taking a serious interest in the game myself
Four or five? Stan echoes, almost disbelieving.
You betcha! Ransom nods. Dad wanted to cut the clubs short but I wouldnt hear of it. Had quite a tantrum about it as I recall. Because I always enjoyed playing with them at full stretch. He lifts his chin, proudly. I relished the challenge. I suppose you could say Im from the Grip it and rip it school. A feel player. My swings always been pretty powerful, pretty distinctive, pretty uh loose.
Ransom performs a basic simulacrum of his swing (although its grand scope is somewhat retarded by his beleaguered armpits). Pundits like to call it unorthodox, or or maverick he grimaces, sourly or singular. Peter Alliss the commentator? On the BBC? he once called it grotesque. Grotesque?!
The golfer gazes at Stan, horrified. Unbelievable!
Stan opens his mouth to comment.
But what Alliss simply doesnt get, Ransom canters on, oblivious, what he never got, is that Im an instinctive player, a gut player. I play straight from here He pats his breast-pocket, feelingly. The heart, he adds (no hint of irony), and thats something youre born with. It cant be taught. I learned my game from the floor up. I developed it as a kid, inch by inch, through trial and error. Adapting my stroke experimenting making judgements taking risks. I was relentless. Never took a lesson. Never needed to. Just used these
Ransom points at his two eyes: Drank everything in, like a sponge. And it bore fruit. By ten I was playing off a handicap of seven
(Stans grudgingly impressed.)
By thirteen I was playing off par. Although my game went to shit for a while after my parents split up Ransom begins searching the pockets of the military jacket for his cigarettes (then realizes with a start that the jacket isnt actually his). Got a fag on you by any chance?
Stan shakes his head.
Messy, messy divorce. The golfer sighs. My handicap shot up to five after Mam moved to St Ives with Roderick, her new partner. Although on a purely selfish tip Idve never got to spend my summers down on the coast if the old folksd stayed together. As it was I just had a blast, basically; staying out all hours, running wild, ripping it up in the surf And whenever I got myself into a tight spot he grins, mischievously exploiting that trusty, parental guilt mechanism for all it was worth
Jammy bastard, Stan mutters, jealous.
Dont get me wrong, Ransom rapidly backtracks (keen to maintain his hard-bitten, northern lustre), first and foremost I was always a hustler. Had to be. My folks werent made of money. Dad sold car insurance for a living. Mam worked in the school canteen. I raised the funds to surf by playing golf for cash. And while I was never what you might call an ambitious player, at least not in the formal sense of the word never gave a toss about trophies and prizes and all that crap I was competitive as all hell. Still am, to a fault. Its like He frowns. Its like I dont care if I win the tournament, but I do care if I get thrashed by some smarmy, tight-arsed, Norwegian dick, dressed head to toe in fuckin