The New Collected Short Stories Read online

  ‘Good show, Sidney,’ said the chairman of Southend Rotary Club, handing over a brand new set of golf clubs to the winner.

  ‘Blue one hundred and seven,’ the chairman announced as Sidney left the stage and headed back to his table, the golf clubs slung over his right shoulder. He slumped down in his chair and managed a smile when his friends, including the member who had won the gardening implements, came over to congratulate him on drawing first prize in the annual raffle.

  Once midnight struck and the band had played the last waltz, everyone stood and joined in a lusty rendering of ‘God Save the King’.

  As Mr and Mrs Chapman made their way home, Sidney received some strange looks from passers-by who had rarely seen a man carrying a set of golf clubs along the seafront, and certainly not at twenty to one on a Sunday morning.

  ‘Well, Sidney,’ said Sybil as she took the front door key out of her handbag, who would have thought you’d win first prize?’

  ‘What use is a set of golf clubs when you don’t play golf?’ Sidney moaned as he followed his wife into the house.

  ‘Perhaps you should take up the game,’ suggested Sybil. ‘After all, it’s not long before you retire.’

  Sidney didn’t bother to respond as he climbed the stairs. When he reached the landing he pushed open the hatch in the ceiling, pulled down the folding ladder, climbed the steps and dumped the golf clubs in the loft. He didn’t give them another thought until the family sat down for Christmas dinner six months later.

  Christmas dinner at the Chapman household wouldn’t have differed greatly from that in a thousand other homes in Southend in 1921.

  Once grace had been said, Sidney rose from his place at the top of the table to carve the turkey. Sybil sat proudly at the other end of the table while their two sons, Robin and Malcolm, waited impatiently for their plates to be laden with turkey, Brussels sprouts, roast potatoes and sage and onion stuffing. Once Sidney had finished carving the bird, he drowned his plate with thick Bisto gravy until the meat was almost floating.

  ‘Superb, quite superb,’ declared Sidney, digging into a leg. After a second mouthful he added, ‘But then, Sybil, everyone knows you’re the finest cook in Southend.’

  Sybil beamed with satisfaction, even though her husband had paid her the same compliment every Christmas Day for the past eighteen years.

  Only snippets of conversation passed between the Chapman family as they dug contentedly into their well-filled plates. It wasn’t until second helpings had been served that Sidney addressed them again.

  ‘It’s been another capital year for Chapman’s Cleaning Services,’ he declared as he emptied the gravy boat over the second leg, ‘even if I do say so myself.’ The rest of the family didn’t comment, as they were well aware that the chairman had only just begun his annual speech to the shareholders.

  ‘The company enjoyed a record turnover, and declared slightly higher profits than last year,’ said Sidney, placing his knife and fork on his plate, ‘despite the Chancellor of the Exchequer, in his wisdom, raising taxes to fifteen per cent,’ he added solemnly. Sidney didn’t like Mr Lloyd George’s coalition government. He wanted the Conservatives to return to power and bring stability back to the country. ‘And what’s more,’ Sidney continued, nodding in the direction of his older son, ‘Robin is to be congratulated on passing his Higher Certificate. Southend Grammar School has done him proud,’ he added, raising a glass of sherry that the boy wouldn’t be allowed to sample for another year. ‘We can only hope that young Malcolm’ – he turned his attention to the other side of the table – ‘will, in time, follow in his brother’s footsteps. And talking of following in another’s footsteps, when the school year is over I look forward to welcoming Robin into the firm where he will begin work as an apprentice, just as I did thirty-six years ago.’ Sidney raised his glass a second time. ‘Let us never forget the company’s motto: “Cleanliness is next to Godliness.”’

  This was the signal that the annual speech had come to an end, which was always followed by Sidney rolling a cigar lovingly between his fingers. He was just about to light up when Sybil said firmly, ‘Not until after you’ve had your Christmas pudding, dear.’

  Sidney reluctantly placed the cigar back on the table as Sybil disappeared into the kitchen.

  She reappeared a few moments later, carrying a large Christmas pudding which she placed in the centre of the table. Once again, Sidney rose to conduct the annual ceremony. He slowly uncorked a bottle of brandy that had not been touched since the previous year, poured a liberal amount over the burnt offering, then lit a match and set light to the pudding as if he were a high priest performing a pagan sacrifice. Little blue flames spluttered into the air and were greeted by a round of applause.

  Once second helpings had been devoured and Sidney had lit his cigar, the boys became impatient to pull their crackers and discover what treasures awaited them.

  The four of them stood up, crossed hands and held firmly on to the ends of the crackers. An almighty tug was followed by four tiny explosions, which, as always, caused a ripple of laughter before each member of the family sat back down to discover what awaited them.

  Sybil was rewarded with a sewing kit. ‘Always useful,’ she remarked.

  For Sidney, a bottle opener. ‘Very satisfactory,’ he declared.

  Malcolm didn’t look at all pleased with his India rubber, the same offering two years in a row.

  The rest of the family turned their attention to Robin, who was shaking his cracker furiously, but nothing was forthcoming, until a golf ball fell out and rolled across the table.

  None of them could have known that this simple gift would change the young man’s whole life. But then, as you are about to discover, this tale is about Robin Chapman, not his father, mother or younger brother.

  Although Robin Chapman was not a natural games player, his sports master often described him as a good team man.

  Robin regularly turned out as the goalkeeper for the school’s Second XI hockey team during the winter, while in the summer he managed to secure a place in the cricket First XI as a bit of an all-rounder. However, none of those seated around that Christmas dinner table in 1921 could have predicted what was about to take place.

  Robin waited until Tuesday morning before he made his first move, and then only after his father had left for work.

  ‘Always a lot of dry-cleaning to be done following the Christmas holiday,’ Mr Chapman declared before kissing his wife on the cheek and disappearing off down the driveway.

  Once his father was safely out of sight, Robin climbed the stairs, pushed open the ceiling hatch and dragged the dust-covered golf bag out of the loft. He carried the clubs back to his room and set about removing the dust and grime that had accumulated over the past six months with a zeal he’d never displayed in the kitchen; first the leather bag followed by the nine clubs, each one of which bore the signature of someone called Harry Vardon. Once he had completed the task, he slung the bag over his shoulder, crept down the stairs, slipped out of the house and headed towards the seafront.

  When he reached the beach, Robin dropped the bag on the ground and placed the little white ball on the sand by his feet. He then studied the array of shining clubs, not sure which one to select. He finally chose one with the word ‘mashie’ stamped on its head. He focused on the ball and took a swing at it, causing a shower of sand to fly into the air, while the ball remained resolutely in place. After several more attempts he finally made contact with the ball, but it only advanced a few feet to his left.

  Robin chased after it and repeated the exercise again and again, until the ball finally launched into the air and landed with a plop a hundred yards in front of him. By the time he’d returned home for lunch, late, he considered himself to be the next Harry Vardon. Not that he had any idea who Harry Vardon was.

  Robin didn’t go back to the beach that afternoon, but instead paid a visit to the local library, where he went straight to the sports section. As he could on