Chapter 26

We flew straight to Edinburgh on Saturday, spent the night in that picturesque city, and on the following day hired a chauffeured car for the week ahead, a young man who would take us to St. Andrews and, he swore, would be qualified to serve as our general guide there.

The drive took only an hour. The Scottish countryside was rich and green, and the weather quite pleasing. It was August here. It felt like April in Chapel Hill. Our driver was a cheerful young Scotsman who, upon finding that Tess and Kim were professional golfers, was nearly overcome with excitement. "I took you for a band of tourists!" he said, apologetically.

Golfers -- even female golfers -- are near-royalty in Scotland. The young man talked about the Old Course at St. Andrews for the duration of our drive. It wasn't boring. It was highly informative, actually. We felt lucky to have him.

This was, he told us, the first time the Women's British Open was to be played on the Old Course at St. Andrews. It was quite an honor, he said. It meant that women's golf had truly "arrived," because this course -- why, it was the finest in Britain -- quite possibly the finest in the entire world!

"I understand it's been designated, this very year," Tess told him, "as the finest golf course anywhere in the world, outside the United States."

"Well excuse me for saying so, Miss," our driver said, "but that sounds like a bit of Yankee patronization, to me! 'The best course outside the United States, eh?' Well, try and not forget: We were playing golf over here, and on this very ground, before there was a bloody United States!"

"Don't get yourself all overwrought," I told him. "We are eager to play on this great golf course, and we weren't part of the voting when the selections were made, or when that statement was issued!"

"I apologize," the young man -- Wilbur Nelson, his name was -- said, and he sounded apologetic, at that. "We do have our pride, you understand. This was, after all -- golf, I mean -- invented, right here in Scotland!"

"Indeed it was," I told him, "and you Scotsmen have got a lot to answer for, I'll tell you! Golf! It's an abomination!"

He knew I was joking -- or he thought I was, anyway, and we all had a laugh together. Tess explained to Wilbur that I, too, was almost a Wilbur. "His name is Will," she told him, "but we call him 'Will-ard' nowadays." She and Kim laughed, and I suppose Wilbur wondered why that struck them as funny, but he let it pass.

Upon arriving at our hotel in St. Andrews -- an imposing old structure -- we explained to Wilbur that we had a room for him there. He was shocked that we'd had the foresight to arrange for a room for our driver. The tournament was a major event for the town, and rooms were likely scarce -- especially at this hotel. We didn't explain that he'd be sleeping -- alone, unless he made other arrangements -- in the room reserved for Kim.

Kim, as usual, would be sleeping with Tess and me. We could only hope the bed would be adequate for the purpose. We had asked, and had been informed that it was "quite large."

Sunday afternoon (and evening -- the sun went down very late in the day, by our standards) was spent walking around the town. It was very old and lovely. The architecture and ambiance were foreign to our experience -- Tess' and mine, as Americans, and of course to Kim, as well. It was a memorable place. We had eleven days, after this tournament was concluded on Sunday, before we were due in Edmonton, Alberta for the Canadian Women's Open. We resolved to spend a few days enjoying Scotland before flying home.

On Monday morning, we walked the Old Course at St. Andrews. It was almost as strange as walking on the moon. All of us had seen the course on television. We knew, somewhat, that it was far different than anything we'd typically see in the States. "Nothing like this in Korea, either," Kim assured us.

The course was nearly treeless. It was a vast array of rolling hills, broad stretches of grass, beautiful vistas of the Bay of St. Andrews, and tall grassy roughs. The fairways, for the most part, were broad and, seemingly, free of obstacles, other than their own undulating nature. But an errant shot in that rough -- oh, it would be a dilemma for any golfer. The rough was very rough indeed! Lost balls, I thought, must be commonplace. Hitting out of that terrible stuff must be akin to harvesting grain with a scythe!

Kim shook her head. "This place was made for you, Tess! They built this place especially for your game!"

"Well, they started playing here in 15-hundred-something," Tess said. "That was a little before my time."

"You're going to just cream this golf course!" Kim said. "It's challenging. It's long. The traps are incredibly deep! But, Tess! Tess! You're going to just beat this poor golf course to a pulp!"

"From your lips to God's ears!" Tess said.

She was being quiet. She was being modest and unassuming. But I knew my golfer. I knew she agreed with every word that Kim had said. I knew she could hardly wait to take on the Old Course at St. Andrews.

We practiced on Monday afternoon, and again on Tuesday. Both my golfers liked the course, liked their ability to score there. Kim's much shorter game off the tee left her at some disadvantage, but she, too, liked the course. Part of it was just respect for the traditions of golf.

But a good part of it was, this was one hell of a golf course, by any standard. It was unique, exciting, challenging, potentially difficult -- especially if, as often happened, the winds began to blow.

I worried about the wind. Hawaii had taught me that wind was not Tess Henderson's favorite element.

But she didn't mention it, all week. The winds had been noticeable: considerable, although not excessive. It didn't seem to hurt her game. Tess was full of confidence.

We invited our driver, Wilbur, to dinner on Wednesday evening, the night before the opening round. Tess had an extremely early start time Thursday. Kim's was considerably later in the morning, about midway among the starters. All the starters would begin on the first tee. There were no divided rounds at St. Andrews, with a portion of the starting field teeing off from the tenth hole. It wasn't practicable. Seven greens on the Old Course were shared by two holes -- that is, golfers hitting from two different fairways were aiming at the same green, from differing directions! Only the first, ninth, 17^th and 18^th holes had their own exclusive greens, all to themselves.

Happily, since daylight in Scotland, in early August, was available for many hours, all the players would start from the first tee, and there would be no difficulty, weather permitting, in all of them finishing the round.

We knew the course by now, and all its peculiarities, but Wilbur was something of an historian of Scottish golf, and he kept us amused throughout dinner with stories about the history of great tournaments at St. Andrews.

Strange golf course or not, we all knew that American golfers -- PGA professionals, mostly -- had enjoyed enormous success there, and at other British Open courses, in recent decades. These Americans -- most especially Jack Nicklaus, Tom Watson, and, more recently, Tiger Woods, enjoyed enormous respect and admiration in Scotland, and in all of Britain, for their fine performances in "The Open."

We invited Wilbur back to our suite, where I served up a bottle of Guinness Extra Stout for us all. "This is Irish brew!" Wilbur observed, with some skepticism.

"Yes, and not easy to find here in Scotland," I agreed, "but for all their faults, those Irishmen can make a helluva beer, Wilbur -- taste it and tell me that I'm wrong."

He tasted it. "You're not wrong, Yank. That's a bloody good brew!"

Wilbur had another, and we encouraged him to continue telling us his seemingly unlimited collection of stories. The young man talked for awhile, but then he got a little quiet, and seemed to settle back, in his place, despite the chair he'd chosen not being one hospitable to dozing. "You've got just the one bed then, in this suite -- like the one I'm in?" he asked at one point.

"That's right, Wilbur," Kim said, smiling.

I think Kim saw where this was going, and she was amused.

"My own room's as ample as this one is!" Wilbur said. "I've got all the amenities! Quite a fine room for a driver to be living in."

"We've had a rewarding year, on the Tour," Kim said.

"So. You've got three suites, then?" Wilbur said.

"No," Kim said, smiling sweetly. "Only the two. Yours. And ours."

"But there's... just the one... Oh! Oh, well, I... ahhh... I supposed I'd better be getting along, then, and back to my room. I wish you all a good night, and I thank you for the fine dinner, and the company!"

"We enjoyed it too, Wilbur," Tess said. "It's strictly up to you, but if you've an interest in following the rounds tomorrow, we can provide you with our starting times, and with a pass for the grounds."

"I'd appreciate that greatly, mum. And if you'll be needing me, for driving, later, I'll be right here, in my rooms, after. And you have the telephone number, for in there, do you not?"

The information was exchanged, and Tess saw him to the door and said goodnight. "Ahh, Kim, you should have had a little mercy on the boy! He's a likely lad, and no older than we are. And he's over there, alone in what was destined to be your bed! It's a cruelty, your denying him access to your ripe little body!"

"But Tess -- the extra room is as much yours as it is mine. And this is a Wednesday evening, don't forget. Wednesdays, usually, are my special evenings with Will-ard, here. You are, of course, welcome to join in with us, but you know how I do look forward to my Wednesday evenings with Will-ard. I think he rather enjoys them, too.

"Isn't that true, Will-ard?... Wouldn't you be a bit disappointed, were I to leave you, on a Wednesday night, for another man? Especially since history suggests you're unlikely to find any joy in the arms of Tess, the Wednesday Night Nervous Nellie, the Nun for a Day."

"Wilbur's a nice young man," I said, "and I wish him well. But not that well. You stay here with us, Kimmy, and we will see what comes up. In all likelihood, whatever it is, it's likely you'll get first dibs on it."

Something did come up, and Kimmy did get first dibs. And seconds, too. Tess got the spoon afterward, though, and the soft, harmless remains of Little Will, tucked away in her cleft. It was cool and pleasant in our elderly but well-appointed room, and the three of us, closely linked for sleeping, had ample room in the bed. Our bed was, as advertised, "a good size."

We had an early breakfast in the hotel dining room before Tess and I were off for her extremely early tee time. Wilbur joined us there and accompanied us to the first tee, as well. His plan was to stay with us until the ninth hole, making himself available for any odd errand that might come up, and then he'd cut back and try to locate Kim's group, and follow her for the remainder of her round, probably to the end.

He'd have been a handy person to have around, I thought, at Pine Needles, when he could have been dispatched to the RV to pick up a dark shirt and an iron bra for Tess to change into.

Actually, Wilbur seemed a bit disturbed to have been hired by us for the duration of the tournament as a driver, and to have so little demanded of him or his vehicle. I suppose he was right: It was an extravagance, having him along for the entire week, but it was (mostly) Tess' money at stake, and I didn't object. It felt comfortable, having Wilbur available. Like a backup. He'd have gladly served as Kim's caddy, had he been qualified to do so, and had Kim seen fit to ask him. But Kim didn't pick her caddies based on charm and good looks. Whenever time permitted, she would quiz the locals wherever we played, learning what she could about the available caddies, and doing her best to choose someone who could afford her good help.

A good caddy is not a useless artifact. It would be very easy to overemphasize a caddie's importance, even at the professional level, but that is not to say that a good one can't help one's game along, in small but perhaps significant ways. Kim was still giving me a lot of credit (most of which I didn't deserve) for her good results in the Match Play tournament at New Rochelle.

Tess was paired with a British professional whom she'd never met on the American tour, and with a little-known second-year pro named Bridgett McGregor. The McGregor woman was a big red-headed girl, tall and raw-boned, and instantly popular with the gallery -- largely, I figured, because her name sounded vaguely Scottish. Bridgett McGregor, make no mistake, was just another American girl trying to make good, but she was going to be treated as a just-pretend Scottish lass for the duration.

The gallery liked Tess, too, however. Why not? She was quickly making a name for herself on the Tour, and these were knowledgeable fans of the game.

And Tess, God knows, was easy to look at.

"Same deal?" Tess asked me, as the Brit woman's name was being announced to the gallery by the starter.

"Same deal?" she said again, this time poking me with an elbow and giving me a sly smile.

I finally figured out that this was her shorthand for what had become a little tradition -- a ritual -- at the start of a tournament. She was asking whether she'd get the promised opportunity to blow me, if she performed up to standard.

I had no illusions about her affinity for fellatio. She took to it well-enough, and certainly had developed skills far beyond those necessary for entry into any graduate school, anywhere, offering that academic specialty.

Nevertheless, I assumed that she wasn't pining away for it, nor did she believe, for an instant, that it was something she had to earn, in order to secure access... No, Tess could shoot 90 and hit three balls into St. Andrews Bay today, and if she wanted to suck my cock that night, she knew she'd encounter no resistance from me.

All the same, if the little ritual amused her, even for a moment, it was all to the good. Maybe she'd feel loose, and happy with the World in General, and go out and hit the ball a country mile.

Well, that's exactly what she did. She hit the snot out of the ball, right from the beginning, and when we got to the tenth tee, she was four under for the day -- four birds, five pars, no miscues of any kind.

Our newest fan, Wilbur, was duly impressed. "She hits the ball like a man!" he exclaimed at one point, awed by Tess' long drive on a par five.

"But she's all woman, Wilbur -- take my word," I said.