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man had a square flat yellow face. One of the Koreans?
Bond paid his green-fee to Hampton, the steward, and went into the
changing-room. It was just the same - the same tacky smell of old shoes and
socks and last summer's sweat. Why was it a tradition of the most famous golf
clubs that their standard of hygiene should be that of a Victorian private
school? Bond changed his socks and put on the battered old pair of nailed
Saxones. He took off the coat of his yellowing black and white hound's tooth
suit and pulled on a faded black wind-cheater.
Cigarettes? Lighter? He was ready to go
Bond walked slowly out, preparing his mind for the game. On purpose he had
needled this man into a high, tough match so that Goldfinger's respect for him
should be increased and Goldfinger's view of Bond - that he was the type of
ruthless, hard
.adventurer who might be very useful to Goldfinger - would be confirmed. Bond
had thought that perhaps a hundred-pound
Nassau would be the form. But ten thousand dollars! There had probably never
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been such a high singles game in history
except in the finals of American Championships or in the big amateur Calcutta
Sweeps where it was the backers rather than the players who had the money on.
Goldfinger's private accounting must have taken a nasty dent. He wouldn't have
liked that. He would be aching to get some of his money back. When Bond had
talked about playing high, Goldfinger had seen his chance.
So be it. But one thing was certain, for a hundred reasons Bond could not
afford to lose.
He turned into the shop and picked up the balls and tees from Alfred Blacking.
'Hawker's got the clubs, sir.'
Bond strolled out across the five hundred yards of shaven seaside turf that
led to the first tee. Goldfinger was practising on the putting green. His
caddie stood near by, rolling balk to him. Goldfinger putted in the new
fashion - between his legs with a mallet putter. Bond felt encouraged. He
didn't believe in the system. He knew it was no good practising himself. His
old hickory Calamity Jane had its good days and its bad. There was nothing to
do about it. He knew also that the St Marks practice green bore no
resemblance, in speed or texture, to the greens on the course.
Bond caught up with the limping, insouciant figure of his caddie who was
sauntering along chipping at an imaginary ball with Bond's blaster.
'Afternoon, Hawker.'
'Afternoon, sir.' Hawker handed Bond the blaster and threw down three used
balls. His keen sardonic poacher's face split in a wry grin of welcome. 'HowVe
you been keep in', sir? Played any golf in the last twenty years? Can you
still put them on the roof of the starter's hut?' This referred to the day
when Bond, trying to do just that before a match, had put two balls through
the starter's window.
'Let's see.' Bond took the blaster and hefted it in his hand, gauging the
distance. The tap of the balls on the practice green had ceased. Bond
addressed the ball, swung quickly, lifted his head and shanked the ball almost
at right angles. He tried again. This time it was a dunch. A foot of turf flew
up. The ball went ten yards. Bond turned to Hawker, who was looking his most
sardonic. 'It's all right, Hawker. Those were for show. Now then, one for
you.' He stepped up to the third ball, took his club back slowly and whipped
the club head through. The ball soared a hundred feet, paused elegantly,
dropped eighty feet on to the thatched roof of the starter's hut and bounced
down.
Bond handed back the club. Hawker's eyes were thoughtful, amused. He said
nothing. He pulled out the driver and handed it to Bond. They walked together
to the first tee, talking about Hawker's family.
Goldfinger joined them, relaxed, impassive. Bond greeted Goldfinger's caddie,
an obsequious, talkative man called Foulks whom Bond had never liked. Bond
glanced at Gold-finger's clubs. They were a brand new set of American Ben
Hogans with smart St Marks leather covers for the woods. The bag was one of
the stitched black leather holdalls favoured by American pros. The clubs were
in individual cardboard tubes for easy extraction. It was a pretentious
outfit, but the best.
'Toss for honour?' Goldfinger flicked a coin.
'Tails.'
It was heads. Goldfinger took out his driver and unpeeled a new ball. He said,
'Dunlop 65. Number One. Always use the same ball. What's yours?'
Tenfold. Hearts.'
Goldfinger looked keenly at Bond. 'Strict Rules of Golf?'
'Naturally.'
'Right.' Goldfinger walked on to the tee and teed up. He took one or two
careful, concentrated practice swings. It was a type of swing Bond knew well -
the grooved, mechanical, repeating swing of someone who'had studied the game
with great care, read all the books and spent five thousand pounds on the
finest pro teachers. It would be a good, scoring swing which might not
collapse under pressure. Bond envied it.
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Goldfinger took up his stance, wagged gracefully, took his club head back in a
wide slow arc and, with his eyes glued to the ball, broke his wrists
correctly. He brought the club head mechanically, effortlessly, down and
through the ball and into a rather artificial, copybook finish. The ball went
straight and true about two hundred yards down the fairway.
It was an excellent, uninspiring shot. Bond knew that Goldfinger would be
capable of repeating the same swing with different clubs again and again round
the eighteen holes.
Bond took his place, gave himself a lowish tee, addressed the ball with
careful enmity and, with a flat, racket-player's swing in which there was just
too much wrist for safety, lashed the ball away. It was a fine, attacking
drive that landed past
Goldfinger's ball and rolled on fifty yards. But it had had a shade of draw
and ended on the edge of the left-hand rough.
They were two good drives. As Bond handed his club to Hawker and strolled off
in the wake of the more impatient
Goldfinger, he smelled the sweet smell of the beginning of a
knock-down-and-drag-out game of golf on a beautiful day in May with the larks
singing-over the greatest seaside course in the world.
24
The first hole of the Royal St Marks is four hundred and fifty yards long -
four hundred and fifty yards of undulating fairway with one central bunker to
trap a mis-hit second shot and a chain of bunkers guarding three-quarters of
the green to trap a well-hit one. You can slip through the unguarded quarter,
but the fairway slopes to the right there and you are more likely to end up
with a nasty first-chip-of-the-day out of the rough. Goldfinger was well
placed to try for this opening. Bond watched him take what was probably a
spoon, make his two practice swings and address the ball.
Many unlikely people play golf, including people who are blind, who have only
one arm, or even no legs, and people often wear bizarre clothes to the game.
Other golfers don't think them odd, for there are no rules of appearance or
dress at golf. That is one of its minor pleasures. But Goldfinger had made an
attempt to look smart at golf and that is the only way of dressing that is
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