Anyone for Tee presents Harry Putter and the Professional's Spoon

Doglegs School of Golfing and Greencraft

Rosebush Close was a very desirable neighbourhood, and the Parsleys at number seven were proud of their four-bedroom house. Prices in the Close were going up nicely every year, keeping unwelcome, first-time buyers away. The Parsleys' neighbours were ordinary, professional people, who painted their houses regularly and looked after their gardens, while the Bottomleys at number twenty-two and the Parkinsons at number twenty-four kept the gossips happy with their suspected Saturday night wife-swapping parties. Mr and Mrs Parsley were probably the most ordinary of all the residents of Rosebush Close. Their life was utterly predictable, and they liked it that way. They frowned on the slightest hint of eccentricity, which Mrs Parsley would refer to as being 'unnecessary'.
Mr Parsley was a large, florid-faced man with extremely bushy eyebrows, which came in very handy for resting his glasses on when he was reading. He owned Parsley and Chives Garden Centre, which sold everything that respectable suburban residents could possibly want in their garden. His parents had come from the north of England, and he was constantly reminding his staff that 'Where there's muck, there's brass', although these days he preferred to take care of the brass, and leave the muck to someone else.
Mrs Parsley was a bony, anaemic-looking woman with a sour, pinched mouth that quite obviously had never said anything good about anyone. The only exceptions she made to her jaundiced view of humanity were her husband, about whom she dared say nothing, and her young son Perkin, who could have disembowelled the neighbours' cat before her eyes and been accused of no worse than youthful high spirits.
The Parsleys seemed to have the ideal life, but one nagging dread haunted them. Jonathan and Linda Putter. The Putters' name was never spoken in the Parsley household, and Mrs Parsley's darkest moments came whenever her thoughts turned to her sister and her appalling bother-in-law. It was her recurring nightmare that they would one day turn up on the doorstep and cause her such shame that the Parsleys would have to leave Rosebush Close and probably emigrate. The Putters were dangerous and most unnecessary eccentrics, who had dared to perpetuate their twisted genes by producing a son. Without even seeing the young Putter, Mrs Parsley knew in her bones that he must be kept away from her precious little Perkin at all costs.
As our story begins on a bright Monday morning, nothing in the air hinted at the extraordinary events about to take place. The school holidays had just begun, so the Close was quiet, without the usual bustle of the school-run. Mr Parsley was humming 'Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go...' as he picked out his favourite flowered tie and Mrs Parsley was looking forward to catching up on a whole weekend's gossip on the wife-swapping saga from Mrs Bakewell next door, as she struggled to get the weighty young Perkin out of his cot and onto his potty. No-one noticed the man with the beard in spotless cricket whites pacing the pavement across the road, mumbling to himself.
Putting down his tea-cup, Mr Parsley kissed his wife goodbye and was about to plant a big, wet splonker on Perkin's chubby cheek, when he caught a whiff of the contents of the potty on which his son was now sitting, and thought better of it. 'Nice varied diet', he chuckled out loud, as he went to the front door.
It was only as he pulled out of his drive into the Close that he saw the first sign of trouble, almost running into the back of Mr Bakewell's Jaguar in his shock. Sitting on his garden wall was a middle-aged lady brandishing a very long fishing-rod, wearing dark green oilskins and waders and a sou'wester bristling with trout flies, smoking a clay pipe. He could tell she was not a resident of Rosebush Close. Mr Parsley stopped the car and lowered his window.
'What are you doing on my wall?' he asked, rather tersely.
'Waiting,' said the lady, without taking the pipe out of her mouth.
'Waiting for what,' demanded Mr Parsley.
'Just waiting,' said the lady, this time removing the pipe, and looking thoughtfully into its bowl. Mr Parsley, who was used to getting his own way both at home and in the office, was lost for words at such calm indifference to his questioning, and his mouth opened and closed several times without producing a sound. Finally managing a gruff 'Hmphh', he put up his window and drove away, muttering 'Damned hippy', his favourite condemnation of anyone who did not adhere to his personal views of dress or behaviour. Mr Parsley's formative years had been the Sixties, and he had inherited his father's dislike for the innovative social experiments of the day. But by the time he reached the main road his mind was already back to more material matters, and a greedy smile spread over his face as he savoured the prospect of the sizeable order of garden gnomes and miniature windmills he was expecting that morning.
Brightly coloured gnomes were soon forgotten, however, as he began to notice equally brightly dressed, but clearly real people everywhere. Men in gaudy sweaters with pink and black lozenges down the front, worn above heather coloured plus fours and topped by tweed caps. Women in bermuda shorts and loud T-shirts, wearing only one glove and a sun visor. And they were all wearing two-toned shoes with the laces poking through frilly flaps. It was infuriating and so 'unnecessary', as Mrs Parsley would have put it. As he drove into his reserved parking space at the Garden Centre, he tried hard to bring his mind back to gnomes.'Good morning Mr Parsley', chirped the receptionist, as he came through the door marked 'Staff Only'.
'Not so far', he answered back, slamming his office door behind him.
Nevertheless, an hour later, having been thoroughly unpleasant to the tea-lady for giving him two lumps of sugar instead of one, and after terrorising an accounts clerk over a discrepancy of 5 pence in petty cash, he felt much better again. When the order for gnomes and windmills came through on the fax, with the unexpected bonus of two dozen birdbaths, he was quite his old self, and stood triumphantly in front of the portrait of his deceased partner, Mr Benjamin Chives, as if to share the good news. Parsley and Chives Garden Centre prided itself on having the finest selection of gnomes in south-east England, but the gnome business had been slow of late, so this order was a major boost to morale.
In celebration, Mr Parsley decided to treat himself to a Ploughman's lunch at the nearby pub instead of Monday's special of cauliflower cheese in the canteen. He regretted the decision almost as soon as he stepped out of the building. Men in lilac and lime-green coloured trousers wearing roll-neck sweaters and baseball caps were standing outside the pub, their hands locked round rolled-up umbrellas which they were swishing to and fro. He scuttled into the pub and walked up to the bar.'A pint of best bitter, please barman,' he said.
'Not erm.. driving then today, Sir?' asked the barman, winking twice as he spoke.
'It's only a pint, man, for God's sake, and what business is it of yours anyway?' said Parsley, his good mood irretrievably lost.
'None Sir, none at all, just enquiring...', said the barman. 'Can I perhaps interest you in a, ahem, club sandwich, Sir..?” he continued, this time tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger as he spoke. 'Or possibly a nice errr… green salad, Sir, with baby spinach, lots of – ahh - iron in spinach, Sir, if you know what I mean', he went on, winking furiously again.
'I don't know what you mean, and don't wink at me, young man. Just give me a Ploughman's, and be quick about it!', said Parsley.
'What about, er... ahem, chips with that, Sir?' suggested the barman, making a nudging gesture with his elbow and ignoring the purple flush rising out of Mr Parsley's shirt collar and up his face.
'Get me the Manager!', exploded Mr Parsley. 'I won't tolerate this suggestive behaviour d'you hear?'
He's out on his erm… break, Sir, ' said the barman. 'But if Sir wouldn't mind waiting, and perhaps, ahem, calling the next customer through...'
'I haven't got time to waste hanging round here,' shouted Parsley. 'But don't think you've heard the last of this...', he spluttered, storming out of the pub, still muttering. 'Damn cheek... hippies and weirdos everywhere...'
As he marched back to the office, something happened that made his blood run cold. A group of women in tweed skirts were standing at the bus stop. They were all wearing woolly hats with contrasting coloured bobbles on them. Mr Parsley could hear snippets of their conversation.
'The Putters, yes, ...so sad, lovely couple...'
'Young too, and their little boy...'
'Harry, wasn't it..?'
'Yes, poor child...'
Mr Parsley felt like stopping to hear more, but instead broke into a run, bounded up the stairs into his office, slammed the door for the second time that day and plonked into his chair, sweating profusely. He picked up the 'phone to call his wife, but put it down again without dialling. He was overreacting. It was all those silly people getting on his nerves. Perhaps the women were talking about someone else, or maybe he had just misheard. That was it, they must have said 'Potter', or 'Petty' or 'Patter'. And anyway, he might have got the child's name wrong. Perhaps it was Henry or Hedley. Best not to bother Mrs Parsley when he wasn't even sure of himself. She so hated any talk of her family.
Try as he might, Mr Parsley couldn't get his mind back onto garden supplies, so for the first time in fifteen years he decided to leave the office early. With his thoughts elsewhere he went out to his car and barged straight into a man leaving the Garden Centre carrying a case of flowerpots. Pots flew in every direction, shattering as they hit the ground.
'Beg your pardon,' said Mr Parsley, surveying the damage and bending to pick up a solitary unbroken pot. 'My fault entirely, let me get you...'
But he stopped in mid-phrase as he saw the man's black and white spiked shoes, and then looked slowly upwards, taking in long, white socks, green plus fours and a tartan sweater, before meeting a deeply tanned face underneath a tartan cap with a red bobble.
'Think nothing of it, Sir, accidents will happen, and nothing could spoil my day today. Celebrate, Sir, You-Know-Who has had his come-uppance, we shan't be seeing him any more. Even a Fruddle like you should be happy today, Sir. And they weren't very nice flowerpots anyway.'
With that, the man shook Mr Parsley's hand, patted him on the shoulder and walked away, humming happily to himself.
Mr Parsley was in shock. He had just broken ten pounds worth of flowerpots belonging to a man he had never met, and the man had told him to celebrate, then called him a Fruddle, which somehow didn't sound all that rude, shaken his hand and walked off happy as could be. But the man was very oddly dressed. And he didn't like Parsley and Chives' flowerpots. Obviously mental, thought Mr Parsley, as he got into his car and drove home.
Driving into Rosebush Close, Mr Parsley's heart sank as he saw the lady in the fishing gear. True, she was now sitting on the wall of number 8 across the road, but it unsettled him again.
'Haven't you got anything better to do than hang around here?' he called to her as he got out of his car. 'No,' said the fisher-lady, teeth still clamped around the pipe.
'I've half a mind to call the Police,' said Mr Parsley.
'Try listening to the other half then,' said the lady, staring up the Close as if looking for someone. 'Cheek!', said Mr Parsley as he let himself indoors, but wondering how he was going to explain over the telephone that a lady dressed in full trout-fishing gear had been in the Close all day and was now sitting on the garden wall of number eight. Perhaps he would just ignore her, or rather take her advice and forget the call to the Police. After all she wasn't on his wall any more, and he hated meddling in other people's business.
'I'm home dear,' he called out to his wife. 'Priscilla, I'm home."
'Good Lord, William, you nearly frightened me to death,' said Mrs Parsley, emerging from the drawing room where she had clearly just been enjoying an afternoon nap. 'Why on earth are you home so early?'
Although determined to keep the day's events to himself, Mr Parsley hadn't thought up a good excuse for his unprecedented early return home.
'I, er, I thought I'd come home and, er, give Perkin his tea,' he finally managed.
'Don't be silly dear, you know you swore never to do that again after he was sick all over you at Christmas!' said Mrs Parsley. 'You must be working too hard, William, why don't you sit down and have a nap?'
'Yes, good idea dear, I am rather tired,' said Mr Parsley, relieved, as he flopped into his armchair with the paper.
It was almost dinner time when Mrs Parsley woke him from a fitful sleep by holding the screaming Perkin up to his cheek. 'Lickle Perky-pies wants a big goodnight kissy from his daddykins', said Mrs Parsley. Mr Parsley duly obliged, and had to get his handkerchief out afterwards to wipe a large amount of dribble off his face.
Over dinner, he tried hard to sound interested when his wife told him how Perkin had bitten Mrs Bakewell that morning as she was stroking his hair and saying 'Such a sweet little angel', but his eyes glazed over when Mrs Parsley began a detailed account of the comings and goings at the Parkinsons on Saturday night.
'I think I'll just watch the news and then go to bed,' he said, as he got up from the dinner table, leaving his treacle sponge almost untouched.
'I think you're sickening for something', said Mrs Parsley. 'I'd take two aspirin if I were you.'
Mr Parsley switched on the television and was leaving the room to get the aspirin when the voice from the TV stopped him in his tracks.
'In the High Street, shops have been reporting a sudden upturn in sales of leisurewear today, with brightly coloured trousers, shirts and pullovers in strong demand. Our Fashion Correspondent Minnie Skurt has been out with the shoppers today, Minnie, are we about to see a new fashion trend?'
'Well, Andy, I'm not sure if we can call this a trend yet. Some people are buying traditional tweeds, others want Paisley prints or geometric patterns, and there's been quite a run on tartan knits, but no discernible trend that I can see, other than an emphasis on bright colours. None of the shoppers I've talked to wanted to be on camera, but they are certainly in a very good mood and spending money. A few people have told me that it's all because of 'You-Know-Who', but no-one seems willing to say more than that. I suspect that one of our young British designers is behind this, and we'll find out in a few days who it is. Andy?'
'Thanks Minnie. Now, for the sports news...'
Mr Parsley turned off the TV and slumped into his chair. So it wasn't just him seeing those odd people. Perhaps he had heard rightly about the Putters.
'Priscilla darling,' he began, as his wife came into the room with a glass of water for the aspirin. 'Any news from the Putters recently?'
Mrs Parsley dropped the glass of water and her mouth fell open in surprise. Her husband had never called her 'darling' since their courting days, and they never, ever, talked about the Putters.
'Certainly not,' she said, recovering her composure, rubbing the carpet with several used tissues from her apron pocket. 'And you know I don't like them mentioned in this house.'
'I know, but it's just that...,' Mr Parsley could hardly bring himself to say it. 'I heard their name today, and that plus all this other funny business, well, you know...'
'What funny business would that be William? And why would anyone want to talk about those unnecessary people?'
'Those people who all are dressed funnily today. I wondered if they might have anything to do with... you know, their sort.'
'I'm pleased to say, William, that I have had no news from the P-, from them since the congratulations card when Perkin was born.'
'I see. I suppose their boy would be about the same age as Perkin,' said Mr Parsley, unwilling to let the subject drop.
'Something like that, yes, but I don't see what interest it is to us William,' said his wife in her chilliest tone.
'Hedley, wasn't it? The boy's name, I mean.'
'Harry, if you must know. Vulgar little name, not even a proper name in fact, a nickname. Typical. Now I'm going up to bed William, don't forget your aspirin and mind this puddle here, I don't want it walked into all the carpets. Good night.'
Mrs Parsley went upstairs, leaving her husband staring gloomily at the wall. Eventually he got up, walked around the puddle of water now well soaked into the Axminster, and followed his wife to bed. As he undressed in the dark, he peeked out of the curtains as he did every night. Just beyond the ring of light from the lamp post outside number 8, the lady in the oilskins was still standing, her pipe glowing red as she puffed on it. He pulled the curtains tight, and crept into bed.
Mrs Parsley was already snoring, but Mr Parsley's mind was full of ladies in oilskins, people in outrageous clothes, cheeky barmen and men carrying flowerpots. Were the Putters about to upset their orderly life? Surely they woudn't dare, they knew they were not welcome in Rosebush Close. And even if they did turn up, he would just send them away. The Parsleys wanted nothing to do with those unnecessary sort of people.
As sleep overtook the comfortable homes of Rosebush Close, the quiet street outside seemed to be waking up. Still perched on the wall at number 8, the patience of the fisher-lady was finally rewarded. Her eyes opened wide as the man in cricket whites appeared at the end of the Close and walked towards her.
He was a large man with a powerful torso and a magnificent black beard, and any resident of the Close still awake might have mistaken him for the ghost of Dr W.G.Grace. The resemblance was not entirely fortuitous, and the man himself was no less extraordinary than the great Doctor. For this was Albert Grumblemore, Headmaster of Doglegs School of Golfing and Greencraft, the man who, more than any other, was helping to preserve the game of golf for future generations after the worldwide ban which sent it underground. He was swinging his cricket bat as he walked, nipping the tops off the weeds which were growing through the cracks in the pavement.
'Rather warm in that outfit aren't you, Professor McGillicuddy?' he said as he approached the lady in oilskins.
'How did you guess it was me?' asked the fisher-lady, removing her sou'wester and tapping her pipe out on number 8's wall. Professor McGillicuddy was the Deputy Headmistress of Doglegs.
'Guessing didn't enter into it,' said Grumblemore. 'You obviously sought advice about an appropriate disguise from Professor Day. I did the same, but I'm not entirely sure the advice was sound.'
'I merely asked him what Fruddles wear when they're going to be standing around all day, waiting,' said Professor McGillicuddy. 'He suggested this,' she said, pointing at her fishing gear. 'Or else something to do with cricket. I don't understand cricket but I have fished, so I thought this was a safer bet.'
'Indeed. As you see, Professor, I went for the cricket. Dr Grace was a childhood hero of mine,' said Grumblemore.
'Dr who?'
'No, Dr Grace, Professor, the greatest cricketer of all time,' said Grumblemore. 'And no mean golfer, besides. Perhaps you would be good enough to remind me, Professor, to have a word with Professor Day when we return. I think he may be in need of a refresher course in Fruddle fashion.'
'Certainly, Professor. But what happens now? I've been waiting all day and seen nothing more than someone almost driving into a parked car and an unpleasant brat of a child bite a neighbour's finger.'
'There was no need for you to wait here, Professor, you should have been celebrating. There's been no shortage of parties today.'
Professor McGillicuddy frowned deeply, causing the sou'wester to fall down over her face.
'That's for sure,' she said, pulling off the offending hat. 'Too many, and no-one except you and I seems to have bothered to take precautions. The Fruddles know something's happening, Professor, I saw it on the news over the road there. All our people buying new clothes to party in, and wearing them out in the open. Most careless, the Ministry will have to do something.'
'True, true,' said Grumblemore. 'But understandable in the circumstances, Professor. That was a very close call, they have good cause to celebrate.'
'Indeed it was, but we must remember our situation. If the Fruddles find us out, where will that leave us?'
'Ah, but if Vandeveld had triumphed, my dear Professor, where would that have left us? Care for a stick of gum?'
'No thank you Professor,' said Professor McGillicuddy with another of her withering frowns. 'You know I disapprove of gum, and teaching staff should set an example.'
Grumblemore hesitated, and put the gum back in his pocket. A moment later, he took it out again and popped a stick in his mouth. 'It helps me concentrate,' he said.
McGillicuddy chose to ignore this.
'So do you really think that You-Know-Who is gone for good, Professor?'
'My dear Millicent,' said Grumblemore, smiling as he saw her jump at the use of her first name. How many times do I have to remind you, of all people, that we should call things by their name. It was Vandeveld who so nearly triumphed, and Vandeveld who has now been defeated. There is no cause to shy away from his name.'
'Not for you, no,' said McGillicuddy, shivering at the twice-repeated name. 'With your powers, you fear no-one. Even You-Know - I mean - Vandeveld - was scared of you.'
'Once perhaps,' mused Grumblemore. 'But since then he has achieved things I have never managed.'
'Only because you are wedded to the School,' said McGillicuddy. 'Your motives are far more - I'd say - honourable than financial gain or fame.'
'Thank heavens for darkness,' said Grumblemore. I'm blushing more than the time Matron asked if she could try my rescue club.'
McGillicuddy moved to one side to let the street lamp shine on Grumblemore's face, but the orange light was no help. Then she realised that Grumblemore was trying to change the subject. She looked him squarely in the eye, with an expression that made hardened sixth year students at Doglegs wilt at the knees.
'But the reason for his defeat, Professor, can the rumours I'm hearing be true? Could that little boy really have stopped him?'
Grumblemore chose this moment to remove his chewing gum and shape it into a perfect sphere between thumb and forefinger, before popping the ball of gum back in his mouth.
'I was always fond of the old gutta-percha you know, wonderful feel it had...', he mused.
'The rumours have it,' said McGillicuddy, even more testily, 'that You-Know-Who's ball was going to ricochet off the grandstand and bounce back onto the green or the fringe, leaving him with four to get down to win. Until it caught the poor child on the head. And that Jonathan and Linda Putter have both - both - they've both gone completely mad and had to be locked up.'
Grumblemore looked solemn, staring back at Professor McGillicuddy. She burst into tears.
'Jonathan and Linda ... it can't be true ... it's not fair ... Oh, Albert...'
Grumblemore took her hand and squeezed it. 'There, there, Millicent, yes, it's very sad...', he said gravely.
'B-but they say the little boy will be alright, somehow he survived, You-Know-Who didn't kill him, and now He is just a shadow of Himself, lost His game, gone away...', sobbed McGillicuddy.
Grumblemore tried to smile.
'So it's t-t-true?' she stammered, 'Little Harry survived... a baby like that... against a full shot with a two-iron? But how?'
'Your guess is as good as mine, Professor,' said Grumblemore, 'it would appear the golfing gods are smiling on young Harry.'
Professor McGillicuddy reached into her oilskins for a handkerchief, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. She blew her nose very loudly, causing Grumblemore to press his finger to his lips and murmur 'Shhhh..., you'll wake the Fruddles.' She cast a nervous glance round the Close, but there were no lights at the upstairs windows.
'Halfcut's taking his time.' said Grumblemore. 'He told you I was coming down here, did he?'
'I'm afraid so,' said McGillicuddy, 'he said he shouldn't be telling anyone, but I thought it alright to insist. But he didn't explain why you were coming.'
'I am here to leave Harry with his aunt and uncle. They are his legal guardians now.'
'Albert no! Not them!' hissed McGillicuddy. 'I've seen them, they're awful people, both of them. A nasty gossip and a rude bully. Not to mention their horrid child who bites people. They would never understand - our world. You can't leave Harry Putter with them.'
'They are his legal guardians now, Professor. Please believe me, this is the right thing to do. When Harry is old enough they can explain what happened to him, and when he is eleven we can take the boy in hand and educate him like one of us. I am leaving a letter to that effect.'
'What good do you think a letter will do?' shouted McGillicuddy, once again forgetting the sleeping Fruddles of Rosebush Close. 'The boy is a phenomenon, a hero, he will be famous wherever golf is played. Those people have no idea what that means!'
'Precisely, Professor,' said Grumblemore, 'and do please keep your voice down. You must understand that such fame can be heady stuff if one is not mature enough to handle it. What chance would an infant have? Better that he should be brought up well away from the spotlight, and when he is ready for it, we can take care of him.'
Professor McGillicuddy thought about remonstrating with Grumblemore one last time, but knew it was useless. 'I suppose so... but really... the poor child...' She was lost in thought for a moment. 'Professor, you haven't asked Halfcut to bring him here, have you?'
'I have. And I would have expected him to be here by now.'
'But Professor, Halfcut isn't the most reliable...'
'I would trust Halfcut with Calamity Jane.' said Grumblemore, referring to his priceless and much-loved hickory-shafted putter, which had once belonged to the great Bobby Jones. 'Just because he ... ahh! talk of the devil, here he comes, I think.'
A rumbling, scrunching, humming sound was coming from somewhere beyond the Close, getting louder by the second. Grumblemore and McGillicuddy strained their eyes to see what was making it. Suddenly, around the corner, came an enormous and very hairy man riding a bright red Toro Greenmaster 4000-D, the noise of its rollers on the hard tarmac reverberating along the Close. Grumblemore began waving furiously at the enormous man, crossing his arms above his head to tell him to stop. He began to run towards the advancing mower.
"Shhhh, shhhh, Halfcut, you'll have everyone awake before our work is done!', he whispered, as loudly as he could. 'Quick, turn off that motor and pick me up some stones or some gravel from a driveway. There's too much light here.'
'Sorry Headmaster, Sir,' said Halfcut, cutting the engine and stepping off the mower, 'I didn't think ter walk the last few 'undred yards, would've done me good, me bum's that sore after fourteen hours on that thing. I got just the thing fer yer, Sir, never go anywhere without 'em.'
Halfcut reached a hand the size of a ham into his trouser pocket, and pulled it out to reveal a fistful of smooth round pebbles. 'I picks 'em up on the beach on me days off, Sir, I like to play with 'em, seeing as how I can't use proper balls any more...'
'Quite, quite...' said Grumblemore, 'now, club please Halfcut, I don't think this cricket bat will do the job.'
'But yer know I ain't allowed to carry clubs outside school, Sir.'
'Halfcut, this is no time for fibs. I know you have one, just lend it to me and we'll say no more about it.' 'Thanking you, Sir,' murmured Halfcut, deeply embarassed. He produced a rusty old mashie-niblick from somewhere inside his green overalls. 'It's all I got with me , Sir, sorry.'
'That will do nicely thank you, Halfcut, now stand back please. You too, Professor.'
Grumblemore reached down and took a handful of earth from the herbaceous border of number four and formed a small tee with it. He put a pebble on it, and with a short, punchy swing, shot the stone straight at the street lamp at the far end of the Close, which smashed and went out with a loud tinkling of glass on the pavement.
'Lovely shot, Professor,' said McGillicuddy clapping her hands, before realising that this was only adding to the noise.
'You was always too good fer teaching, Professor Grumblemore Sir,' said Halfcut, in deep admiration. 'I'm always tellin' the students the Headmaster can shoot the lights out any time he wants... I wish they could see you know Sir. Beautiful, beautiful...' He looked as if he was about to cry.
Grumblemore continued teeing up pebbles and firing them into the orange tubes until the whole Close was plunged into darkness. He handed the mashie-niblick back to Halfcut, who slipped it quickly back inside his overalls.
'Thank you Halfcut, a nice little club, although a tad stiff in the shaft for me, I fear. However, now we can go about our business without being observed by the Fruddles. How was your journey here?'
'Well, Sir, I 'ad a terrible time gettin' outta the course with the boy, they was all trying to get a look at 'im, and there were a right old commotion, what with 'is Mum screaming and wailing as they carried 'er off. In the end I, er..., borrowed this 'ere mower and 'id 'im in the grass box, Sir. I thought 'e could sleep a bit in there. Never 'eard a peep out of the little feller until we was almost at Watford, bless 'im.'
'You came down the M1?' said Professor McGillicuddy, horrified.
''ad to, Professor. If I'd tried and come down the side roads, Professor Grumblemore and yerself would 'ave been waitin' 'ere till Wednesday! Good little machine this is though, goes a treat,' he said, patting the Toro affectionately, 'but I still prefer me own Ransome back 'ome.'
Grumblemore reached up his arm and patted Halfcut on the shoulder. 'Well done anyway, Halfcut, you got him here safely.'
'Just doin' me job, Professor Sir,' said Halfcut, beaming with pride.
'Well, let's have a look at young Harry Putter then,' said Grumblemore, reaching into the grassbox of the mower and pulling out a tight little bundle of sheets that looked like a large larva, white and wriggling, but covered in grass. McGillicuddy tut-tutted, and took the baby out of his hands, brushing off the grass and gazing into the tiny face. Harry was asleep, but wrinkling his nose as the grass cuttings tickled him. McGillicuddy looked lovingly at him, then suddenly drew a sharp breath as she saw an angry red weal on his forehead, round, with a curious dimpled pattern and what looked like a back-to-front 'S' inside it.
'That must be where...,' she began.
'Yes,' said Grumblemore, looking over her shoulder. 'A Srixon high compression, unless I'm very much mistaken. I'm afraid he'll be marked for life.'
'But surely - in this day and age - plastic surgery or something... couldn't it be fixed Professor?'
'Possibly...' murmured Grumblemore. 'But that'll be his decision when he's old enough. Sometimes distinguishing marks can be quite helpful. I myself have a large mole on the back of my right hand. If I can see it at address, I know my right hand is too much on top of the shaft. Now then, Halfcut, we'd better do what we came here to do.'
Grumblemore picked Harry out of McGillicuddy's arms and began to walk over the road to number seven.
'Could I - just - er - wish 'im well, Sir? said Halfcut.
Grumblemore turned around and let Halfcut bend over Harry and kiss his cheek. Harry wrinkled his little nose, and as Halfcut stood up a tear rolled from his eye. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a handkerchief bigger than a tea-towel, wiped his eyes and then blew his nose like the Queen Mary on a foggy day.
'Halfcut, shhhh!, said McGillicuddy in a loud whisper. 'Haven't you learned to blow your nose quietly after all your years on golf courses?'
'Ahem, quite, Professor,' said Grumblemore.
'Sorry Professor...' whispered Halfcut, between sobs. 'Only, when I thinks of poor Linda and John... in the funny farm... and young 'arry... about ter be given ter the Fruddles...'
'I know, I know, but we must be strong,' said McGillicuddy. 'We'll be seeing Harry again, have no fear.'
Grumblemore turned again towards number seven, and walked up the Parsley's front path. He gently put the little bundle that was Harry down on the doorstep, and reached into his cricket whites for the letter, pushing it well into the tightly wrapped sheets. He walked back across the street and the three of them looked in silence at the forlorn little package on the doorstep.
'Time to make our way home, I think,' said Grumblemore, with a lump in his throat, 'or else join in the celebrations.'
'I got ter return this little beauty,' said Halfcut, 'some poor greenkeeper'll be missing 'er. 'Bye Professor Grumblemore, Sir, 'bye Professor McGillicuddy.'
Halfcut mounted the Toro once again, and the engine roared into action, shattering the calm of the Close. The mower began clanking its way up the street as Grumblemore and McGillicuddy watched it go.
The noise caused first one, then two, then several lights to appear at windows up and down the Close. 'Let's be off, Professor, see you back at Doglegs.' said Grumblemore. 'The Fruddles will be wondering what happened to their street lights, best we're not around.'
Several Fruddles were indeed wondering, including Mr Parsley. 'Another bloody strike, I suppose.' he muttered to himself after getting out of bed and peering into the darkness. He let the curtain fall and got back into bed beside his snoring wife, slowly drifting into an uneasy sleep, troubled by thoughts of men in loud sweaters and women in shorts that were too short. A sleep that would have been even uneasier, had he any idea of what awaited him on the doorstep in the morning.
The man in cricket whites and the lady in oilskins stopped at the end of the Close and turned back. They couldn't see the bundle on the doorstep of number seven, but they both wished it well in its new life.
Blissfully unaware of all this, and of what the next ten years held for him, the little boy wrapped snugly in his sheets slept on. And while he slept, people all over the world were raising their glasses in secret to toast a hero they had never seen: 'To Harry Putter - the boy who escaped Sudden Death!'

Click here for Chapter Two of Harry Putter and the Professional's Spoon:

Swygge & Belch's Finest Ginger Beer - the favourite tipple at Doglegs!

Visit Wally Utterloonie's Pro-Shop for all your golfing needs!

Golfers! Drop in at The Three Wedges in Pigsfield for a warm welcome from Electra Blunkett!

Wolfsblood - the Kümmel of choice for golfers!

Mucky Pup - golfwear for children who can't stay clean for five minutes!