But thats a toothbrush and I want a hairbrush, her mother snaps. I want to know how Id hold a hairbrush.
Valentine opens the bathroom cabinet. Heres a comb, she says, removing an old nit comb from behind a medicated shampoo bottle.
She passes it over.
Her mother takes the comb. She holds it correctly, instinctively. She stares at it for a moment, blinks, and then: Why the hell have you given me a fucking nit comb? she demands.
For some reason I always thought Michelle Wie was part-Hawaiian, Gene muses half to himself as he polishes a glass.
Nah-ah. Youre confusing her with Tiger Woods, mate. Ransom shrugs.
Michelle who? Jen suddenly interjects after a five-second hiatus (Jen is generally a bright, engaging conversationalist, but shes just completing an exhausting, twelve-hour shift and also has a small yet resilient raft of subsidiary issues to contend with, which Ransom cant possibly have any inkling of, i.e. a) the tail-end of a painful dose of conjunctivitis caught from her cat, Wookey, a magnificent, pedigree Maine Coon combined with a prodigious pair of false eyelashes which are so long and audacious that they tickle both her cheeks, distractingly, every time she blinks, b) a ludicrously handsome, lusty and untrustworthy Irish boyfriend by the name of Sinclair who is currently living it up for a week on a lads-only break in Tangier, and c) the frightful responsibility of three E grade A-levels to re-sit over the summer. Jen longs to become a vet and is obsessed by Australian marsupials; their fluffy tails, their tiny hands, their huge, saucer-like eyes. Her favourite kind of marsupial is the sugar-glider. She even invented her own cocktail of the same name a sickly combination of cold espresso, coconut milk and Malibu which they sell at the bar simply to indulge her).
Michelle Wie, Gene says, politely glancing over at Ransom for confirmation, is a young, female golfer who ruffled a few feathers a while back by insisting on competing professionally alongside the males
Why cant women play golf? Ransom jovially interrupts him, with a leer.
Pause.
I dont know, Gene answers, cautiously, why cant women play golf?
Because theyre good with an iron Ransoms voice cracks with ill-suppressed hilarity, but they cant drive! Boom Boom!
Gene smiles, thinly.
Sorry, Ransom apologizes, simulating embarrassment, that ones old as the friggin hills.
Michelle Wee?! Jen snorts (totally ignoring Ransoms attempted quip). Thats brilliant!
Shes a perfectly good little athlete, Ransom allows, but shes ruined her game by over-swinging. Fact is she cant compete with the men. Not possible. She simply hasnt got the power in her upper torso.
Although I imagine the huge advances in club technology over the last decade or so Gene interjects.
Phooey, Ransom slaps him down, irritated, because when club technology improves, the male players automatically hit that much further themselves.
God, Jen groans, rolling her eyes, boredly, what is this fatal attraction between footballers and bloody golf, eh?
Huh? Ransoms head snaps around. He frowns. He looks a little confused.
I just dont get it, Jen persists (ignoring a pointed look that Gene is now darting at her), because golfs so unbelievably dull. I mean why rattle on endlessly about golf all night when theres so much other great stuff to talk about, like I dunno She throws up her hands.
Basket-weaving, Gene suggests, wryly.
Topiary, Ransom helpfully volunteers.
The comic novels of Saki, Gene effortlessly parries.
UFOs. Ransom grins.
The worst services on the M4, Gene deftly volleys, between Reading and Newport.
The best services on the M1, Ransom vigorously retaliates, between Watford and Leeds.
Ive never been to the North, Jen confesses (with cheerful candour), at exactly the same moment as Gene hollers, Leicester Forest East! (then blushes).
I favour Shovel myself. Ransom shrugs.
Although I have been to Norfolk, Jen concedes.
Norfolk? Ransom echoes, bewildered. Norfolk isnt in the North, you bloomin half-wit!
I know that! Jen snaps.
Crop circles! Gene promptly endeavours to divert them.
The Chinese Horoscope! (Ransoms easily distracted.)
The current export price of British beef, Gene casually raises him.
Which is the luckier number Ransom plucks at his unshaven chin with comedic thoughtfulness three or seven?
Stones versus Beatles! Genes starting to sweat a little.
Leeches! Ransom whoops (slamming down his beer bottle for extra emphasis then cursing as it foams up, over and on to the bar top).
Leeches?
But I love leeches! Jen squeals, baby-clapping delightedly. Lets talk about leeches! Lets! Lets! Oh, do lets!
Ransom recoils slightly at the unexpected violence of Jens reaction.
Jens into nature, Gene explains (with an avuncular smile), shes hoping to become a vet when she eventually grows up.
Jen shoots Gene a faux-filthy/faux-flirty look.
Okay Ransom tosses a quick peanut into his mouth and then launches, vaingloriously, into the requisite anecdote.
So I was playing this shonky tournament in Japan once, he starts off, and I sliced a shot on the fourth which landed just to the right of the green in this really tricky area of rough
Hang on a minute, Jen interrupts, holding up her hand, exasperated. Please, please, please tell me were not back to talking about sodding golf again?!
Did you hear that? Valentine asks, cocking her head and listening intently.
What? Her mother stops brushing. Shes been brushing so diligently that her gums are bleeding and the white foam in her mouth has turned pink.
A squeak this tiny squeak and then a sharp kind of of scratching sound.
Her mother also listens. A cat pads into the bathroom, sits down and commences licking its paws. There are now three cats in the room: one on the windowsill, one in the bath (where its just squatting to defecate over the plug-hole) and one sitting by the door.
This house is full of stinking cats, her mother grumbles. How can we have rats in a house full of stinking cats?
Valentine doesnt answer. She closes her eyes. She places a finger to her lips.
Her mother ignores her. Bobbys sur le point de chier énormément, she announces.
Huh?
Valentine is still listening out, intently, for another squeak.
Bobby. The stinking cat. Hes shitting on the plug.
Valentines eyes fly open. She turns. She does a quick double-take.
No! Bobby! she yells. STOP!
* * *
Footballs bad enough, Jen grumbles, attacking the coffee machine with a renewed ferocity, but golf? Urgh! You just cant get away from it. Its everywhere like a contagious disease.
A good walk, spoiled, I believe the saying goes.
As he speaks, Gene reaches under the counter and withdraws a small, black notepad (with a broken, red Bic shoved into its metal binder). He opens the book, removes the pen, jots down a quick reminder about the squeaking barstool, then turns to the back page and in large, block letters writes: ITS STUART RANSOM THE FAMOUS PRO GOLFER, STUPID!
He then casually leans back and proffers Jen the pad.
In fact this really lovely friend of mine called Candy Rose, who I first met at jazz/tap classes when I was nine Jen pauses, ruminatively, pointedly ignoring the pad. Although strictly speaking we already knew each other, by sight, from nursery school
Ransom yawns and glances down at his phone.
Anyhow, Jen blithely continues, Candy works for this animal refuge near Wandon End, and they were desperate to expand their workspace into some adjacent farmland. The farmer seemed perfectly happy to rent it out to them, but for some strange reason the council kept raising all these petty objections to their planning application. Then the next thing we know, this huge, twenty-five-acre plot
The yamabiru. Ransom suddenly turns, quite deliberately, and addresses himself directly to Gene. The Japanese land leech. The mountains are their natural habitat, but over recent years theyve taken to hitching a ride down on to the flatlands with packs of roaming boar and deer. Theyve become a real pest in the towns where they enjoy slithering into peoples socks and quietly ingesting a quick takeaway meal
Jesus! Gene is revolted. How big?
Small. Around half an inch to begin with, but they can swell to almost ten times that size. I had one gnawing away at my ankle but I didnt have a clue about it till I felt this nasty twinge by the fourth and yanked off my shoe. At first I thought it was just a thorn or a thistle, but then I realized my sock was totally soaked he pauses, dramatically, saturated with my own blood.
Wow! Jen is clearly impressed. A land leech? Thats wild!
A yamabiru. Ransom nods. I swear I nearly shat myself.
Spell that out for me Jen snatches the pad from Gene. Im gonna look it up on the internet.
Did it hurt? Gene wonders.
Nah. It was more the shock of it than anything. I mean the sheer volume of
Wow! Jen repeats. So what did you do with it? Did you kill it? Did you stamp on it? SPLAT!
Jen stamps her foot, violently. Did it explode like a water-bomb? I bet you did. I bet you killed it.
Damn, fuckin right I wouldve! Ransom exclaims, indignant. But I never got the chance. The little swined drunk its fill and scarpered.
So how ? Gene looks mystified.
The course quack. He identified the wound. Said it was a pretty common problem on golf courses in those parts.
Yik! Jen is mesmerized. She is still holding the pad.
Did you quit the match? Gene wonders.
Quit? Ransom looks astounded. Whaddya take me for?! I poured a small bottle of iced water over my head, smoked a quick fag, downed a quart of Scotch and finished in a perfectly respectable five over par.
Did you quit the match? Gene wonders.
Quit? Ransom looks astounded. Whaddya take me for?! I poured a small bottle of iced water over my head, smoked a quick fag, downed a quart of Scotch and finished in a perfectly respectable five over par.
A short silence follows. Ransom takes a long swig of his beer.
Although the leeches were the least of my problems in Japan. He hiccups. Oops. He places his hand over his mouth. It turns out the tournament had been arranged by the Yakuza
The Japanese mafia? Genes eyes widen.
Yep. They were extorting cash from local businessmen by forcing them to take part and then charging them huge entry fees. I kept wondering at the time why all the course officials seemed so jittery