Southend U3A

The Charlatan - Maureen Rampersaud

November 2013

She collected the key and regarded the cottage with affection before she opened the door. It led straight into the sitting room, which hadn't changed at all, dark wood, tapestry armchairs and a well used York stone fireplace. Tears stung her eyes as she played all the memories in her mind.

A cup of tea, that's what she needed. Ever thoughtful, the owners had left some basic provisions. She opened the back door onto the veranda overlooking t The Charlatan by Maureen Rampersaud 26. 11. '13 Roly was having a sleepless night. He tossed and turned, threw the duvet off and mopped the sweat from his brow. Later, with chattering teeth, he retrieved it from the floor. In a fit of coughing, he realised that he'd grabbed his dusty old furry rug. Eventually, he drifted into an uneasy sleep, only to wake up with a start. In his dream, Major Phillips was denouncing him as a charlatan and a downright rotter.

Tomorrow . . . or rather today, Roly was to play a trial round of golf with some of the committee. It was a very prestigious club, and conveniently located just over the road. During his working life, Roly had set off with that sinking feeling one has when you hate what you do, and those who do it with you. A mist of envy descended when he saw the cars sweeping into the club, driven by those carefree souls in pursuit of pleasure. Now he was retired, he felt driven. He had to be part of it. Hell, he deserved it.

The only problem was that he had exaggerated his skills to achieve this chance of membership. He had only played pitch and putt before, so public humiliation was inevitable. Roly prayed for a miracle.

Major Phillips and Mr. Edgerton-Smythe were going to join the prospective four members at the fifth hole, to 'let them settle in to their game'. Roly watched the other three completing perfect drives onto the green, before he took his maiden shot, which he managed, somehow, to hit backwards. Roly was thankful that the committee hadn't witnessed it. He tried to ignore the jibes from his rivals, but things went from bad to worse for Roly. The others were so consistently good. Roly trudged to the fifth hole with the resignation of one bound for his execution.

His heart sank when he saw the expanse of water in front of the hole. He started to shake, so he closed his eyes and prayed to whatever god was responsible for golf. The Major and Mr. Edgerton-Smythe were watching closely, clipboards in their hands. The first of his rivals strutted around, looking at the angle of the shot, swiping flamboyantly through the air with his club. Eventually, he leant forward, wiggled his hips, brought the club back . . . and it slipped from his grasp, barely missing the Major, who was busily writing.

The next 'hopeful' strode to tee off, gave an almighty swing and managed to unearth a sizeable lump of the carefully managed turf. The third contender was visibly shaken by this turn of events and he was clearly less sure of his own ability. He cleared his throat several times as he walked around the ball, bent down and pointed his club towards the hole, until the Major shouted, 'Get on with it !' Well, this was evidently the last straw. The poor chap ran off in a very nervous state.

There was no doubt about it, Roly felt much more at ease as he stepped forward to take his shot. It was in the spirit of 'I've got nothing to lose', that he hit a truly magnificent shot which landed conveniently on the green. The rest was a bit of a blur for Roly, so stunned was he. Somehow, they managed to finish the hole, his remaining two rivals never regaining their composure. As Roly potted the ball, he heard Mr. Edgerton-Smythe exclaim, 'By golly, it's an eagle!' Roly looked skywards, puzzled.

At that moment, the god of golf spoke. The heavens opened and they all ran to the clubhouse to avoid getting soaked. By the time the thunderstorm took hold with a vengeance, the Major had bought them all a drink. 'Look, you chaps, see there in that cabinet, it's the Orchester Gold Cup. Now, it's a matter of honour, we must retain it . . . can't have any weak links . . . sure you understand. So raise your glasses, to Roly, welcome to the club, old boy!'