Stark Naked on the Links - Part 2
Stark’s distaste was not directed at me, of course. Quite the contrary, we have travelled great distances amiably together through many a jolly adventure. No, I understood right away whence came this look of disgust: it was the prospect of spending a number of days outside the confines of Seventh Veil in places where, due to the requirements of custom, law, or manners, one is compelled to wear clothing. Stark, it must be said, dresses very smartly, but it’s only quite against her will that she ever does so at all.
Distressing as the thought of a fully attired Stark was to Stark herself, to your narrator, facing several days’ dull journey, it was not without its appeal. It’s often noted, though few are crude enough to mention it, that for someone who has spent much of her adult life in the altogether, Stark’s mien is as prim as any Victorian governess. She is usually to be seen standing feet together, hands neatly folded behind her back, with that slight inclination of the head characteristic of the attitude of calm, steady service. When spurred to action, she moves with the litheness and economy of a cat, never an unnecessary movement. However, when forced by circumstance to dress, the woman becomes a veritable and, let us not mince words, hilarious mass of ticks and twitches. She tugs at her collars, shrugs her shoulders, and incessantly rearranges the folds of her skirts in an altogether comical fashion.
And so the long hours of travel passed, in steady discomfort for Stark and ill-concealed amusement for me, until we at last arrived at the gates of Dundoran Manor.
Our host informed us that we were just in time for breakfast. Sir Alistair was indeed a shortish sort of fellow, with a small round balding head and a very full sandy-coloured moustache. Waddling over to us in his kilt, he looked like nothing so much as an otter on its way to a fancy dress ball. He gruffly accepted our introductions (Stark was my “travelling secretary”) and mechanically showed us in to breakfast. Then just as I got myself good and comfortable and began to tuck into the eggs and kipper, he said, quite casually, “So, that blackguard Tynsdale has sent you to apologize?”
This is the point at which your narrator’s recollection becomes a bit on the blurry side. You see, from the time when I had accepted this mission, I had had a little over three days in which to think up a strategy for how to extract Sir Alistair’s signature on the relevant paperwork. But somehow, what with the scenery and the excellent meals on the airship and the distraction of Stark’s collar-tugging and what not, the only thinking-up I actually got round to was this: I knew that under no circumstances should our connexion with Uncle Edward be revealed, lest the memory of the ill-fated incident, whatever it was, cast its long dark shadow over our budding friendship with the Laird. And now that crucial point of strategy had already been conceded, before the proceedings had even commenced. You can guess that the rumbling steam locomotive of Your Narrator’s thought jumped a few tracks. As I choked on my eggs, my only hope was that somehow the super-fast engine in Stark’s brain was still streamlining down the rails.
And I was not wrong. I had got as far as stammering a few words out between the bits of egg flying from between my lips, when Stark said something. And then Sir A said something else. And then there was some more talking, and before I knew it, we had agreed to a wager: I was to play Sir Alistair at a round of golf next morning. If I won, he would sign the paper. If he won, something something one thousand pounds thingummy. I’m a little fuzzy on the details, I’m afraid. It all happened so fast. Before I could sufficiently assemble the faculties to protest, breakfast was over and I found myself alone on the practice green with Sir Alistair, putter in hand, for “a bit of a warm-up”.
There is a curious sensation which comes over one when one has agreed to something something one thousand pounds thingummy if one loses a round of golf, and one is practicing with one’s opponent, and said opponent sinks putt after putt from a distance approximately the length of a cricket pitch, while one’s own hands tremble so much that one can hardly hole out a three-footer. There is a word for this sensation, and that word is “despair”. By contrast, Sir Alistair’s mood grew lighter and lighter while watching me. The bit of a warm-up began to feel like a nightmare from which there was no waking. When at last Stark appeared on the green to gather us up for luncheon, I fell on her with a yelp of gratitude. But her next words only confused me further.
“Mr. Middlebottom, sir,” she said, “I am happy to report that arrangements have been made to deliver your kilt early tomorrow morning.”
At these words, Sir Alistair’s mood turned suddenly southward. He glowered at Stark as if she had said that she’d just killed his best pony and eaten it for dinner. “My what?” I said.
“Kilt, Sir. It is essential to be properly attired for your round tomorrow. I believe the kilt is customary in such situations.” Stark turned her eyes on our host. “Is it not, Sir Alistair?”
In answer, the Laird merely harrumphed and sent his next putt bouncing four feet wide of the hole. With utter befuddlement now added to my despair, we took our leave, but I resolved to get the scoop from Stark at the earliest opportunity.
Opportunity knocked on my door shortly before dinner, bearing a bottle of scotch whisky and the soda siphon. Your Humble Narrator, having had a very trying day, began gratefully gulping a few mouthfuls of same. While this had the required steadying effect on the nerves, I found that it did not change my general outlook on the situation. “Stark,” I blubbed, handing her my tumbler for a refill, “this is hopeless! I can’t possibly beat Sir Alistair at a round of golf. Did you see him out there on the practice green?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And did you note the manly confidence with which he addressed the ball?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The steely gaze with which he lined up his putt?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The buttery smoothness of his backswing and the graceful swoosh of his follow-through?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And did you see me out there, Stark?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Stark, I’ve barely played golf in my life.”
“There does appear,” she admitted, “to be a perceptible difference in proficiency between yourself and Sir Alistair.”
“Oh, yes, a ‘perceptible difference’. Much like that perceptible difference between the Cossack artillery and the Light Brigade. Why ever did we agree to this?”
“Ours not to reason why, sir.” She smiled slightly, and adjusted the folds of her skirt.
It struck me that Stark’s attitude seemed a trifle flip, considering that something something one thousand pounds thingummy rested on the outcome of our predicament. It also struck me that I could not remember exactly who had first suggested the wager in which I was now compelled to participate. And there was still the matter of how Sir Alistair had found out our connexion with Uncle Edward, to say nothing of the mystery of the kilt. I began to suspect that perhaps our Miss Stark had more plans than she had cared to share with her traveling companion. I decided to probe this matter further.
“Stark,” I said, fixing her with my steeliest gaze, “how do you suppose Sir Alistair found out that I was connected with Uncle Edward?”
“I told him, sir,” she said.
* * * * *
You can well imagine the effect this news had on Your Humble Narrator. Fortunately my tumbler was not empty, so I was able to use the time it took to drain the glass to weigh my next words carefully. They must be precisely tuned to convey my sense of puzzlement and outrage, while simultaneously demanding a satisfactory explanation for this staggering development. I set down the glass and leaned on the mantle for support as I deployed them:
“You what?”
“I informed Sir Alistair of the connexion by cable while arranging our visit.”
“But Stark, I mean, what on earth for?”
“I believe you will agree sir, that Sir Alistair had no earthly reason to wish to comply with our request to copy his excellent golf course.”
“True enough. But surely he has even less reason now that he knows Uncle Edward is behind it?”
“Yes, sir. But given Sir Alistair’s reputation as a sporting man, I reasoned that our best hope was to get him to agree to a wager in which our prize would be his compliance with our wishes.”
“You don’t think we could have just asked him first?”
“It seems unlikely that he would comply without first wishing to know something about the source of our request. It was inevitable that he would discover Lord Tynsdale’s involvement. I thought it best to inform him of the connexion pre-emptively.”
“But now he’ll never agree willingly, Stark. He’s only interested in getting revenge on Uncle Edward.”
“Precisely, sir. I surmised that Sir Alistair’s desire for revenge would motivate him to agree to our wager.”
It is not often that one is able to catch Stark out in a bit of sloppy thinking. But I must say that I really thought I had her here.
“That’s all well and good,” I said, “but how, precisely, am I supposed to win that wager when I can’t play a lick of golf, hmm?” I had placed my fists significantly against my hips and leaned forward at the waist to emphasize my “hmm”, and the effect on Stark was dramatic. She very nearly blinked.
“I believe I may have a solution, sir.”
Those words washed over me like the caress of a gentle morning breeze. I have heard them issued from her lips on many an occasion, and they have always been a sure indication that Stark’s powerful brain had been hard at work, and soon would have me out of the soup. I kicked back, so to speak, the better to appreciate the genius of whatever scheme she was about to unfold. “Say on, Stark.”
“While you were on the practice green, I had the opportunity to engage in conversation with Sir Alistair’s caddie, Quirrels.”
“Was that the rather tweedy chap with a face like clouds louring darkly on the horizon?”
“Indeed sir. Through this conversation I was able to ascertain the nature of the contretemps between Sir Alistair and your uncle. It appears that all tournaments played on Dundoran Burn, including those pertaining to informal wagers between gentlemen, are strictly governed by a specialized set of rules given in the club’s rule book. This rule book, it seems, imposes a set of deliberately baroque and picayune requirements on all participants.”
“Say, do you suppose this club rule book is the very same ‘damned silly book’ about which Uncle Edward was so vexed?”
“Very astute, sir. It appears Sir Alistair has been known, on more than one occasion, to secure victory by disqualifying his opponent on the pretext of some trivial violation of the club rules.”
“And that’s what happened to Uncle Edward?”
“Yes, sir. In Quirrels’ account, it emerged that His Lordship refused to honour the bet and departed in a most agitated state. Words were exchanged.”
“Some pretty ripe and fruity words I’ll wager, if I know my uncle."
“Indeed, sir.”
“But Stark, how does this help us complete our assignment?”
“It means that where golf wagers with Sir Alistair are concerned, one’s proficiency with the clubs is not a determinative factor.”
“So it doesn’t matter that I’m a nincompoop with a niblick?”
“Our best course to effectuate the desired outcome would appear to be through mastery of the club rulebook.”
“Beat him at his own game, you mean.”
“Precisely, sir.”
“But how, Stark, how? I mean if Sir Alistair already knows this book backwards and forwards, by what stratagem do we trick him into breaking the rules? I can tell you’ve been stirring the old grey matter to action on this question. I think I actually saw smoke coming out of your ears at one point. I await your elegant solution with bated breath.”
“I have no idea, sir.”
This revelation shook me. It was here that the thought of the something something thousand pounds thingummy again reared its head and a blackness began to descend upon me.
“You’ve no idea?” I exclaimed.
“I am studying the matter, sir. Perhaps with a good night’s rest, a solution will reveal itself. Good night, sir.”