Stark Naked on the Links - Part 3
It was an odd little foursome that strolled down to the first tee next morning. Sir Alistair stepped merrily along, bouncing a bit as if he could barely keep his joy from lifting him bodily off the ground with every stride. Quirrels, his caddie, lumbered a few steps behind with a look of perfect satisfaction. For them, it seemed, the dew was on the rose, Sir Alistair was about to win yet another wager, God was in his heaven, and all was right et cetera et cetera.
Your Humble Narrator, on the other hand, was feeling none too chirpy. For one thing, Stark hadn’t uttered a word at breakfast about whether a night of cogitation from her powerful brain had found a way out of this soup. For another, I was in the unaccustomed position of wearing, per the club tournament rules, a kilt. You may think that the idea of wearing a kilt to play a round on a fine Scottish golf course would be no end of merriment, but let me tell you that a great deal depends on the time of year. A bit of breeze on his legs is nothing new to your nudist narrator, of course, but a gusty Scottish blow in early spring is rather different from the gentle Caribbean trades. I looked forward with dread to our reaching the notorious number three. That hole, as Uncle Edward had often related with a giddy shudder, turns out from behind the small row of hillocks now shielding us from the worst of the weather and thence runs right along the North Sea, which lashes it with a vicious wind and a frigid spray. My knees began to quiver in anticipation.
Stark, at my side as caddie, was drawing a club from the bag slung over her shoulder in anticipation of the coming activities. She was dressed very stylishly in a pair of tweed plus-fours, argyle socks and a jumper. I found myself looking at her legs, and realized that I gazed not in manly appreciation of a finely turned ankle, but in naked envy of her woollen trousers. It must have been this preoccupation with leg-gazing and trouser-envying, to say nothing of teeth-chattering, that made me forget to devote the required attention to putting one foot in front of the other, because I completely failed to notice when the shaft of the club, bouncing along beside me in Stark’s hand, slipped between my firmly planted right heel and my rapidly advancing left toe. I pitched forward and my face rushed to meet the lawn like it was greeting an old and cherished friend.
“Stark, what on earth--?” I exclaimed, once my mouth was sufficiently free of turf. To say I was shocked would be to understate the case. Here was a woman known throughout the Caribbean for her poise and grace and yet she had somehow managed to lose control of a golf club so far as to send a man in a kilt sailing hat over hindquarters. Could it have been deliberate, I asked myself? The implications were too monstrous to contemplate.
“Oh, dear,” Stark replied, helping me to my feet. “I do apologize, sir. How terribly clumsy of me. Are you badly hurt, Mr. Middlebottom?”
I resumed the vertical, and gingerly tried a few steps. “There’s a slight pain in my right ankle, but it seems willing to do its job.” I took a few more steps with slightly less ginger. “Yes, I believe I can still toddle my way to the tee time.”
“Perhaps, sir, before embarking on this round, you should verify that your golf swing is similarly unimpaired.”
“A good idea, Stark. Better safe, et cetera.” I took the driver from Stark and stepped back a few paces to try the procedure. Everything was going swimmingly until I reached the top of the backswing and my full weight came to rest on my right foot. The right ankle decided that this constituted unfair labour practices and walked straight off the job. Face and turf rushed eagerly together again like parted lovers reuniting on the moors.
When I rolled onto my back I found Sir Alistair bending over me. He was bubbling with ill-concealed joy. I almost fancied he rubbed his hands together with glee. “You’ll not be able to play the round like that, Middlebottom. I’m afraid you must concede the wager.”
“Can’t we postpone it? I’m sure I’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”
“The club tournament rules,” he said, “are very strict concerning postponement where a wager is concerned. Play must commence at the agreed upon time, or the round is forfeit.”
“If I may make a suggestion,” Stark said, helping me to my feet again, “the club rules do allow for substitutions, if both parties agree to it. I offer myself as a substitute for Mr. Middlebottom, as it was my clumsiness which caused this unfortunate mishap.”
“Well . . .” Sir Alistair looked uncertain. “You’d have to play to Mr. Middlebottom’s handicap.”
“Of course.” Stark’s quick reply seemed to unnerve him further. Manners and good sportsmanship surely compelled him to agree to the scheme, but he was obviously struggling with the fear that he was being set up. I can’t say he was wrong to feel that way, either. I had never seen Stark play golf, but I have yet to witness the end of her supply of hidden talents. That Stark was a sort of feminine Bobby Jones seemed to me rather more likely than not.
“And you agree to this as well, Mr. Middlebottom?”
“Oh, well, certainly, certainly,” I said. “Give Miss Stark a chance to make things right and all that. No other choice really.”
“Aye,” Sir Alistair replied slowly, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment before consulting his watch. Suddenly his expression brightened. “I agree,” he said. “Miss Stark may play the wager in your place.”
“Thank you, Sir Alistair,” Stark replied. “You are indeed a sportsman.”
“Of course,” he went on, “she’ll still have to abide by the club rules. And the rules are very specific about acceptable attire for tournament play.” Ah, there was the hitch in the scheme and the reason for Sir A’s sudden change of heart. All our efforts to outfit your humble narrator in kilt and cardigan were come to nought. Stark must play, yet Stark could not play dressed as she was. And only a few moments remained before our appointed tee time. Sir Alistair giddily pulled a copy of the tournament rule book from his bag, opened it to the appropriate page and held it before me. “Rules 23 stroke A through 37 stroke J in subsection H, on proper tournament attire for ladies, are very specific. I’m afraid if she cannot commence the round at the appointed time in appropriate dress, the match is forfeit to me.”
“Look here, Sir Alistair,” I said, “surely just a few minutes…” But as I began to remonstrate with him, there was a sudden whunk and we turned just in time to see a ball soaring gracefully away, fully 250 yards down the fairway. Then we turned to see Quirrels, his eyes bulging and his jaw wagging soundlessly, pointing back toward the tee. We turned yet again, and there stood Stark in the graceful pose of her follow-through, her bare arm raised to shade her eyes as she watched the progress of her tee-shot. She had managed to change her attire.
* * * * *
It was an even odder little foursome that departed the first tee that morning. (1) One Scottish laird with (2) caddie, (3) a second “caddie”, a.k.a. Your Humble Narrator, limping along in full tournament regalia, and (4) one lady golfer, stark naked.
The Laird had been at first so shocked and outraged at the sight of a nude woman on his golf course that he could barely speak. That otter head of his turned entirely red, and he sputtered in helpless confusion over whether to rail at Stark’s indecency or to honourably avert his gaze. Finally he turned his back on her and said “young lady, whatever trickery you’re at with this foolishness, it is in vain. You are not properly dressed for this match. According to Rule 1A of subsection G, proper tournament attire must be worn. The round is mine.”
Stark walked around to face him and calmly took the rule book from his hand. Holding it primly before her face, she leafed over a few pages and then turned it towards him. “I’m afraid Sir Alistair is mistaken,” Stark explained, “Rule 1A of subsection G does not in fact say that proper attire must be worn. It rather states that ‘only proper attire may be worn’. My shoes, provided they are correctly laced using an over-under method, are allowed under rule 27 stroke C of subsection H on tournament attire for ladies, and I believe that my stockings are of an acceptable argyle pattern as defined in rule 32 stroke B of same. Since I wear nothing else, I am therefore in full compliance with tournament rules respecting attire.”
Silence descended. For long moments, Sir Alistair didn’t move or speak, but stared into Stark’s face and breathed so heavily through his nose that his moustache actually fluttered in the gale. Quirrels still stood with his mouth open, taking it all in. Only when I gave my watch a significant look and coughed a few meaningful coughs, did the Laird finally snatch the rule book from her hands and call for his driver. Realizing that he stood to forfeit the wager if he refused to play, he teed up and off we went.
As Stark’s drive had outdistanced her opponent’s by a considerable margin, I was able to have a confidential chat with her as we approached for her second shot. “Stark,” I said, “I’ve been set up. I believe you tripped me on purpose. You intended to play in my stead all along.”
“It grieves me to hear that, sir,” she replied. “Nothing could be further from my intentions than to cause you harm. That your unfortunate mishap resulted in an opportunity for me to perform this service was merely fortuitous.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m sorry about it. You’re by far the superior player, I’ll wager.”
“Most kind of you to say, sir.”
“And I daresay the Laird will be mightily put off his game by your, erm, attire.”
“Another fortuitous result, sir.”
“We’re not out of this soup, yet, though. I believe there’s one thing you haven’t reckoned with.”
“Sir?”
“Old number three. I know you’re very accustomed to being dressed as you are, Stark, but I’m told the cold salt spray on the third hole is like the sting of the lash. I doubt even you can stay on your game through all that.”
“Your point is well taken, sir. However, I believe there is something that you can do to assist me in this matter.”
“Assist you? Erm, Stark,” I said, “you don’t mean to ask me to lend you my cardigan, do you?” My knees began to tremble again with the thought.
“Your offer is greatly appreciated, sir. But I believe it will be more efficacious, with respect to evening the odds, if we were to compel Sir Alistair to lend me his.”
“But how?”
“As a sportsman, Sir Alistair is motivated by a desire for victory. But as a Knight of the British Empire, he will hesitate to watch a young lady suffer as he surely expects I must. I believe you can prevail on his sense of chivalry to get him to accept a side wager on the outcome of the next hole.”
“If you win it, he’ll let you wear his cardy?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“But Stark, I say, you’re . . . well, you’re stark naked. Can you really keep warm in just a cardigan?”
“It shall do,” she said, and looked at me with the merest hint of a smirk. “For a start.”
* * * * *
It was perhaps the oddest little foursome of all that finally made its way from the 18th green to the clubhouse—one Humble Narrator with a slight limp, one Scottish caddie plodding glumly along, one young woman in somewhat oversized Scottish golf attire, and one shivering Knight of the British Empire, wearing nothing but his shoes, socks, and sporran.
“Well, Stark,” I said as we collected Sir Alistair’s signature on the appropriate paperwork, “we’ve not only succeeded in bringing golf to the Caribbean, we managed to bring a little of the Caribbean to the golf course. Makes one think. Life’s great passions can sometimes come together in interesting ways, wouldn’t you say?”
“Your Uncle will be most proud, sir.” she said.