The Lady Golfer
This story is about a developing love affair between Michael, a young engineering manager, and Sandra, a middle-aged conveyancing clerk that he meets on the golf course.
All characters are over eighteen and, whilst essentially drawn from real life, bear only a passing resemblance to actual persons.
I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it and, as always, I welcome comments.
Sylviafan
The great thing about my shift pattern was that for three weeks every month I was free during the weekdays. This meant I could play golf every day at my local club when most of my contemporaries were at work and the only people on the two eighteen-hole courses that my club boasts were the elderly and retired. Of course there were down sides to shift working too: it played havoc with my social life, such as it was, and the night shifts messed up my sleep cycle; I've never been good at sleeping during the day.
My story starts at ten-thirty on a Tuesday morning in early April. The trees and hedges hadn't greened up much yet but there was a promise of renewal and re-growth in the air and the birds were going crazy and singing their heads off. I was standing at the first tee of the Lakes course waiting for the pair ahead of me to get far enough away for me to take my drive. I was looking forward to a relaxing round, maybe playing a couple of balls simultaneously and perhaps spending a bit of time ferreting around in the rough for lost balls if the foursome behind me weren't pressing too hard. Altogether a most satisfactory way to spend a late morning and early afternoon in spring.
I was just setting up my tee and having a couple of swings to loosen up when I became aware of someone with a trolley coming up behind me. I turned and saw a middle-aged lady and as I looked she stopped and consulted her watch.
'What time are you off?' she asked in a clear, unaccented voice.
'Ten-thirty-six,' I replied.
'That's funny, so am I.' She looked puzzled and checked her watch again, looking uncertain of herself.
'You are on the Lakes course?' I asked, 'not the Woodland.'
'Definitely the Lakes,' she replied. 'I've only just started here a few weeks ago and this is my first time on the Lakes course. I was looking forward to it,' she finished.
I pulled my mobile phone out and accessed the booking app. 'That's me at ten-thirty-six,' I said, walking over to her and showing her the screen.
'Yes,' she said, 'I see. I wonder what I've done wrong? It looked alright when I made the booking.'
Despite what she'd said I checked the Woodland course booking sheet. 'What's your name?' I asked.
'Roberts. Sandra Roberts.'
'No, nothing on the Woodlands in that name.' I had a sudden flash of intuition and scrolled down the Lakes booking sheet until I came to ten-thirty-six the following day and there it was: S Roberts. I showed her the screen. 'I'm afraid you're booked in tomorrow, not today.'
'Silly woman,' she said, shaking her head mournfully. You must think me a perfect fool.'
Whatever else I thought of her at that time, I loved the way she talked. It harked back to an earlier epoch, perhaps that of Evelyn Waugh or PG Wodehouse. 'I shouldn't worry,' I reassured her. 'I've done the same myself.' I hadn't but there was something about the slump of her shoulders and the resignation in her face that made me want to cheer her up.
'The worst of it is that I can't play tomorrow. And I was so looking forward to my first time on this course. Is there a slot a bit later?'
'Not until after two,' I reported, after checking.
'Oh bother!'
I had been relishing a relaxing and solitary round but something about Sandra Roberts pricked my conscience and I found myself saying: 'Look, I'm on my own, why don't you come round with me, especially if it's your first time on this course?' After all, I would be playing the next day, and the day after that...
I had expected her to politely decline but somewhat to my surprise she gave me a big smile and said: 'Oh that's ever so kind of you. Are you sure you wouldn't mind?'
I smiled back. 'Of course not.'
She started fiddling with her golf bag, pulling out a couple of balls and taking the head cover off her driver and I took the opportunity to surreptitiously study my new golfing partner. My first impression was of tallness and slimness. She looked to be almost my height in her golf shoes. Her black, slim-fit trousers outlined long, slender legs and the dark red fitted waterproof jacket did the same for her trim waist and narrow shoulders. The most striking thing, as she bent over and unzipped a side pocket, was her hair: a rich reddish-brown and hanging down over her shoulder in a long braid.
She straightened up and smiled again and I said: 'I'm Michael, by the way,' and she held out a slim hand with long, strong-looking fingers.
'Pleased to meet you Michael. And I'll try not to hold you up too much. I'm still a bit of a novice. I only started playing last month and this is probably only my fifth or sixth game.'
'I'm just as likely to hold you up,' I smiled back as I took in her facial features. She wasn't a pretty lady. I suppose the kindest thing would be to say that she looked wholesome: an oval face with a rather long chin and a wide mouth, surmounted by a straight nose and green eyes with pronounced crow's feet at the corners and thick eyebrows of the same colour as her hair. She also had lines on her forehead and large spectacles that gave her an air of academia or perhaps just the classroom. Yes, I thought, that was it. She reminded me of one of my junior-school teachers. Miss Symonds, I seemed to recall. I suppressed a grin at the thought and concentrated on estimating her age. Mid-fifties, I decided.
'Ok, if you're all set I'll get off.' I took a couple of practice swings and then sent my ball roughly down the centre of the fairway. A belter of a shot and certainly over two hundred yards, which was about as good as it gets for me.
'Oh well done!' exclaimed Sandra. 'No pressure on me then.' She teed her ball up and took a couple of practice swipes. Her swing was long and elegant, the club coming over her left shoulder on the backswing in a two-hundred-and-seventy-degree arc. She concentrated on her stroke for long seconds then commenced a slow back stroke.