Strong Medicine

My younger son left last night for a week-long school trip. The older one is already at university. This is the first time we are at home with both children away. I know this is something we will have to eventually get used to but, right now, the house seems quite desolate. The situation does not augur well for the flow of creative juices. In fact, I need some strong medicine to pep me up. At times like this, there is only one option. I reach out for "The Golf Omnibus" by P. G. Wodehouse.

If I had to pick just one short story that I would take with me to a desert island, it would have to be "The Clicking of Cuthbert". I have lost count of the number of times I have read it, but it never fails to get me chuckling. It is a golf story, it's a love story and it's a story with a great moral message where the divide between good (golfers) and evil (pseudo-intellectual snobs who discuss the 'Neo-Scandinavian movement in Portuguese Literature') is clearly defined. Here's just a snippet:

And not long before this story opens a sliced ball, whizzing in at the open window, had come within an ace of incapacitating Raymond Parsloe Devine, the rising young novelist (who rose at that moment a clear foot and a half) from any further exercise of his art. Two inches, indeed, to the right and Raymond must inevitably have handed in his dinner-pail.

I envy those who have not yet read the story. I still remember the incredible delight I experienced when I first read it.

Then, there's "Archibald's Benefit", where Archibald, an ardent but incompetent golfer, falls in love with Margaret, mistakenly assuming that she is the kind of person who likes poetry. He hides the fact that he is a golfer from her and actually starts reading copious amounts of poetry, much to the detriment of his mental health. The story reaches its climax when he is late for an appointment with Margaret on account of having played (and, incredibly, won) a golf-tournament and has to reveal the true reason for his delayed appearance:

Margaret uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Playing golf!"

Archibald bowed his head with manly resignation.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you arrange for us to meet on the links? I should have loved it."

After clarifying that she herself played golf, Margaret said she kept that fact hidden from Archibald because he seemed "so spiritual, so poetic".

Archibald took a step forward. His voice was intense and trembling.

"Margaret," he said, "this is no time for misunderstandings. We must be open with one another. Our happiness is at stake. Tell me honestly, do you like poetry really?"

Margaret hesitated, then answered bravely:

"No, Archibald," she said, "it is as you suspect. I am not worthy of you. I do not like poetry. Ah, you shudder! You turn away! Your face grows hard and scornful!"

Archibald, of course, is ecstatic and reveals that he too hates "the beastly stuff" and had only pretended to like it because he thought she did. That helps him score even more brownie points and all ends well.

In many other stories, Wodehouse describes the techniques of various hopelessly bad golfers in his own inimitable style.

There was the man who seemed to be attempting to deceive his ball and lull it into a sense of false security by looking away from it and then making a lightning slash in the apparent hope of catching it off its guard.

Or,

Poskitt, the d'Artagnan of the links, was a man who brought to the tee the tactics which in his youth had won him much fame as a hammer thrower. His plan was to clench his teeth, shut his eyes, whirl the club around his head and bring it down with sickening violence in the general direction of the sphere. Usually, the only result would be a ball topped along the ground or - as had been known to happen when he used his niblick - cut in half. But there would come times when by some mysterious dispensation of Providence he managed to connect, in which event the gallery would be stunned by the spectacle of a three-hundred-yarder down the middle. The whole thing, as he himself recognized, was a clean, sporting venture. He just let go and hoped for the best.

In direct antithesis to these methods were those of Wadsworth Hemmingway. It was his practice before playing a shot to stand over the ball for an appreciable time, shaking gently in every limb and eyeing it closely as if it were some difficult point of law. When eventually he began his back swing, it was with a slowness which reminded those who had travelled in Switzerland of moving glaciers. A cautious pause at the top, and the clubhead would descend to strike the ball squarely and dispatch it fifty yards down the course in a perfectly straight line.

The contest, in short, between a man who - on, say, the long fifteenth - oscillated between a three and a forty-two and one who on the same hole always got his twelve - never more, never less. The Salt of Golf, as you might say.

Any discussion of "The Golf Omnibus" would be incomplete without reference to "Chester forgets himself". (You can read the story online here if you have the patience to flip pages). Chester Meredith is an excellent, though impatient, golfer who is given to expressing himself freely and colorfully on the course at events that irritate him, including slow play by poor golfers. Chester falls in love with Felicia and, in typical Wodehousian style, assumes that she would not like a man who is intemperate with his language. He tries to control himself but that actually creates the opposite of the intended impression.

Felicia, who respects golf and feels that it should be taken seriously, is disappointed that a person who has so much potential as a player, can be so irreverent as to not care when he misses a shot and merely giggle, or say, "D-d-d-dear me" when some other undesirable event occurs. She feels things will never work out between her and Chester and decides to discontinue their association, after walking with him one last time on the golf course as he plays a round.

Chester plays incredibly well and is in position to break the course record. He only needs to get up and down from near the green on the last hole to break the record and, as he is setting up for his chip, is hit on his backside by an errant shot played by the group (nicknamed 'The Wrecking Crew' on account of their incompetence) behind him. That causes him to duff his chip which barely goes a foot and a half in front of him.

Chester Meredith gave one look at his ball, one look at the flag, one look at the Wrecking Crew, one look at the sky. His lips writhed, his forehead turned vermilion. Beads of perspiration started out on his forehead. And then, with his whole soul seething like a cistern struck by a thunderbolt, spoke.

"! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !" cried Chester.

Dimly, he was aware of a wordless exclamation from the girl beside him, but he was too distraught to think of her now. It was as if all the oaths pent up within his bosom for so many weary days were struggling and jostling to see which could get out first. They cannoned into each other, they linked hands and formed parties, they got themselves all mixed up in weird vowel-sounds, the second syllable of some red-hot verb forming a temporary union with the first syllable of some blistering noun.

"______ ! _______ !! ________ !!! _______ !!!! _______ !!!!!" cried Chester.

Felicia stood staring at him. In her eyes was the look of one who sees visions.

"***!!! ***!!! ***!!! ***!!!" roared Chester, in part.

A great wave of emotion flooded over her. How she had misjudged this silver-tongued man! She shivered as she thought that, had this not happened, in another five minutes they would have parted for ever, sundered by seas of misunderstanding, she cold and scornful, he with all his music still within him.

Chester is taken aback, but Felicia quickly clarifies that she not only thinks his words were justifiable but that she also wholeheartedly admires him for his eloquence. Things are quickly settled and Chester nonchalantly chips in from outside the green to break the course record.

As a person who does not hold himself back from speaking his mind on the golf course, I find that this story resonates closely with my own personality.

There. That took some time to type out, but it makes me feel much better. As long as "The Golf Omnibus" is around, I think I should be able to avoid therapy. That's why I never let it out of my sight. I never know when I may need it.

A friend posted a link on Facebook mentioning that yesterday, October 15, was PGW's 130th birth anniversary. Happy Birthday, Plum. You are still very much with us.