The Feathery Read online

  BILL FLYNN

  THE FEATHERY

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2007 Bill Flynn All rights reserved. ISBN: 1-4196-7571-0 ISBN-13: 978-1419675713

  For:

  Babushka

  Courtney

  Nathan

  Hunter

  Alex

  Lily

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Playing the great golf courses of Europe and attending several British Opens with Norm Cullen, the real Malachy Gallagher and Mike Tracy was an experience that aided in the making of this book...as well as golf in the USA with my friends, Joe Ganem and the real Billy McGinnis.

  Kudos go to the professionals: Shannon Rothenburger Flynn, Donna Lee Richards and Kate Heckman for taking a hard look at The Feathery...and the responsive BookSurge team with Douglas Thompson, Sarah Southerland and Julian Simmon.They all helped to smooth the path to publication.

  PROLOGUE

  A DAY SPENT WITH HUGH MCNAIR, FEATHERY BALL MAKER AND CHAMPION GOLFER

  By Alistair Beddington, London Times At

  St. Andrews, Scotland, July 8th, 1849

  A rain with wind came in the night. It had rushed in from the Firth of Forth to sweep the Linksland. I knocked on the door just as a strong gust from the departing storm lashed at Hugh McNair’s cedar-shingled cottage, turned gray by sea-salt and sun.

  McNair opened the door straight away. I was surprised not to find a larger man. Perhaps his deeds on the golf course set my expectations. Instead, standing before me with an outstretched hand of welcome was a robust chap of around five-foot-seven inches. He was short necked with a black trimmed beard that was thicker on the sides than on the chin. McNair’s pleasant face carried a Hibernian look resembling the Irish I’d seen on my trips to Dublin more than the features of Englishman or Scotsman for that matter. His build was quite compact except for a slight stoop to his shoulders. I found out later that that flaw in posture came from the force required to stuff feathers with an iron rod pushing hard against his shoulders when making feathery balls.

  I introduced myself and confirmed my plan, sent earlier by post, to follow him before, during and after his match with Willie Dunn of Musselburgh. After greeting me he offered tea and poured. He placed his own mug on the window sill and bent low to look out at the Links of St. Andrews. I joined his search and saw dark clouds moving quickly across the morning sky.

  Hugh raised a hand to his chin and stroked his beard, while saying, "If the wind doesn’t die down by afternoon I’ll need a heavier feathery ball for my match with Dunn." He took a sip of tea as he looked out at a treacherous part of the sixth hole rightly named The Lion’s Mouth. It was a gaping sand-filled bunker with steep banked sides. Hugh said, "a heavier ball would fly straight in a strong wind, but wouldn’t gain enough distance to clear Lion’s Mouth like a lighter feathery."

  We left the cottage and started down a wagon path. It led us behind the first teeing place where several caddies were assembled. Some stood up from their lounging to shower Hugh with a chorus of respectful greetings. "Good morning, Sir." "Good morning, Mr. McNair."

  Included in the group was Hugh’s caddie. He introduced the lad to me as James McEwan. James was fourteen with tightly curled red hair and a face spotted with freckles. Hugh informed me that his father, Douglas, was a club maker and friend.

  "It’s a fresh morning, Sir, and ye’ll be playing against Mr. Willie Dunn of Musselburgh," James said.

  "Aye, lad, and ye’ll be carrying me bag at mid-day when I do." Whistles and other exclamations arose from the group. It was obvious they knew of the rivalry between McNair and Dunn…perhaps that rivalry extended to the golf ball-making trade.

  "Mr. McNair, ye’ll be playing your feathery ball today, won’t ye," James McEwan blurted out, "whilst Mr. Dunn will play that hard lump of rubber gutty?"

  Scowls by the other caddies burned in James’ direction, followed by a slap on the head from the tweed cap of the older lad next to him. Hugh walked over and tousled his caddie’s bright red hair. The other caddies grinned only after James’ question seemed to gain the approval of his hero.

  "Aye, I’ll be playing with a feathery today," Hugh answered, "and always, until that gob of gutta-percha can fly better than it does now." Hugh took a club from one of them and swung it as if to make his point. "The Dunns of Musselburgh will play the gutty because they’re set to market it."

  Following Hugh’s reply to young McEwan, Charles Dougal, a caddie the same age as Hugh at 43, spoke up. "I’ll be using the gutty, cause the iron clubs rip and cut the leather if not struck well as your shots. I find the feathery too dear in price at two shillings when a gutty can be had for half."

  Hugh gave Dougal a stern look. "I’ll be playing the ball I make, Charles. That smooth gutta-percha ball doesn’t fly and work as well in the air for me as a feathery."

  Dougal nodded slowly. "True, but older gutties will fly as well as your feathery after they’re marked by miss-hits."

  Hugh’s caddie, McEwan, spoke before Hugh could respond to Dougal’s further endorsement of the gutty. "According to my notes," the McEwan lad said, "Mr. McNair will break his own record soon. He scored an eighty-one against Mr. Cowie of Montrose using his feathery ball."

  A mixture of gasps and jeers came from the group for yet another outspoken remark from McEwan.

  Hugh chuckled. "Thank you, lad."

  It could’ve saved his caddie from another slap on the head from the same tweed cap.

  On the way to his shop Hugh told me he’d taken James McEwan on as a caddie despite concern about his comments in front of other players. Hugh told me James was a good caddie, but then added that his eagerness and love for the game surmounted his sometime brazen behavior.

  I followed Hugh into his shop nestled in among a row of small hotels and other businesses bordering the links of St. Andrews. He introduced me to Tom McIntyre as his partner in feathery ball making, and at times on the links during their golf matches.

  Tom was busy stuffing goose feathers into a small hole in a piece of stitched leather using a crutch-handled steel rod. He held his shoulder up against the tool and moved it inward, guiding the tip with one hand and, with the other, providing feathers from a pocket that ran across his apron. Hugh mentioned that stuffing feathers was the critical step in making a good feathery. It would yield a ball with uniform hardness and shape, if done correctly.

  Hugh went around his shop counting and touching the materials and tools used to make feathery balls. I tagged along behind. A bin was filled with goose down, and three large bull hides hung in one corner of the shop waiting to be worked by hand to soften them. He showed me some pieces cut to size and waiting to be sewn together as leather ball covers. One bull hide would supply enough leather for as many as 200 feathery balls…an amount sufficient for two months of production, at four balls per day. Hugh explained that the slow process accounted for the high price of a feathery, and the Dunn’s gutta-percha balls requiring less cost for labor and material could be sold for less.

  Two balls had been whetted in a solution of alum and water. They were drying on a shelf above the stove where the damp feathers would expand outward, and the leather cover would contract inward to give remarkable hardness to a ball stuffed with pillow-soft goose down. Next, three coats of paint would be applied.

  Hugh weighed some finished feathery balls on a balance scale and inscribed their pennyweight on the painted leather covers. He explained that a pennyweight of 18.23 is equal to one ounce. The weight of each ball was controlled by a slight variation in thickness of the bull hide cover. The pennyweights ranged from twenty-six to thirty-two: a twenty-six pennywe
ight for calm air and a thirty-two pennyweight for a strong wind. Along side the pennyweight inscription on the cover the name, Hugh, was written there only when McNair decided a ball was proper to sell.

  Hugh looked out on the links and seemed relieved to see no sign of a wind blowing there. He called McIntyre to his desk and asked him for a good 26 pennyweight feathery.

  Tom went to a shelf above the stove and came back with a feathery. He told Hugh it was stuffed well and the stitching fine before handing it to him. Hugh gripped the ball and seemed satisfied with the feel before giving it to me. I felt the hardness, and tossed it up in the air a few times before running my fingers over the seams and returning the ball to Hugh. He picked up a quill and wrote HUGH above the pennyweight of 26 on the leather. When the ink dried he placed the ball in his vest pocket.

  I arrived with Hugh McNair on the first teeing place of St. Andrews at noon. Willie Dunn was already there and dressed as Hugh was in a brown vested wool suit, leather necktie and tweed cap. Hugh’s wicker club carrier was slung over McEwan’s shoulder, and it contained seven clubs: a long-nosed driver, a long spoon, a middle spoon, a niblick, a cleek, a rut niblick and a green putter. Dunn’s caddie held his man’s same seven bunched under his arm.

  It would be an 18-hole money match backed by Mr. Brown of Balgarvie at 200 pounds. Hugh would give Dunn a stroke on every 6thhole. He confided to me that three strokes was a lot to give Dunn, but it was a number dictated by the Society of St. Andrews Golfers.

  His caddie reached into Hugh’s wicker basket and pulled out a McEwan made long-nose driving club. James ran his hand over the smooth blond thorn wood and seemed proud McNair would use a club made by his father.

  "Ye’ll put one past those Dunn gutty balls, Mr. McNair," the caddie said.

  Hugh took the club in his hand and gave James a look he may have wished would quiet him on the tee. It didn’t, and the caddie announced his golf ball theory.

  "Mr. Dunn’s smooth new gutty ball might fly farther later on if nicked by his miss-hits," Hugh’s caddie said.

  Dunn frowned and said, "would ye be keeping your lad quiet on the tee, Hugh?"

  Hugh’s smile turned to a look of concern. "I’ll try to do that, Willie," he said.

  The caddies told me a story about gutty balls. They’d said players not happy with newly purchased gutta-percha balls would give them to their caddies to whack around, and the more they were scarred, the better they flew.

  The McEwan lad placed the feathery on a pinch of earth. Hugh took a practice swing with his stance wide over the ball and seemed to be looking at a church steeple target well beyond the links. His eyes went to the ball, and he placed the McEwan long-nose driving club behind it.

  A smooth, deliberate swing of the driver brought the thorn wood head down to impact the ball. I heard a pleasant slap as the leather ball filled with feathers was met by the thorn wood driving club on the right spot. The bull hide must have compressed for an instant until the energy within the goose down recoiled, releasing the ball to flight. It flew from the tee on a high, climbing trajectory and soared upward and outward. The ball sustained lift for several seconds until gravity overcame the thrust of flight, and it dropped to the earth. It looked to be well over 200 yards from the tee. A loud cheer went up from the gallery.

  Dunn’s smooth gutty did not hold so long in the air and was propelled at least 25 yards behind Hugh’s. It inspired only polite applause from the crowd.

  After nine holes, the match was level at a score of 41 for both players. It was a different story on the final nine when McNair went five strokes up on Dunn with only two holes left.

  Hugh was playing the best round of his life and kept it going at the 17th. When they reached the 18th tee, McEwan’s smile was broad as if he knew his hero would exceed his own record score of 81. He placed the feathery on a pinch of sand and I was within earshot when he told Hugh, "some wind has come up behind ye back, knock yer feathery oot lang with this McEwan club, Mr. McNair."

  He handed Hugh the thorn-wood driver. It was a solid drive. I paced it off to its resting place 240 yards straight down the fairway. I asked those St. Andrews men following the match if they’d seen any other drive go that distance. They all claimed it was the longest drive ever on the 18th. The feathery rested in a good lie for his second shot and, before Hugh could ask for it, his caddie pulled a long spoon out of the wicker carrier handing it to his player.

  Hugh hit a perfect shot that bounced onto the 18th green where a crowd was waiting.

  Word spread to the avid golfers and golfing fans of St. Andrews that McNair was on the verge of a record, and they were on hand to bear witness to the miraculous event. All were hushed as he stood over his putt. Hugh stroked it well, and the ball dropped feather and leather silent into the hole for a 3, and a record score of 78 strokes. A loud roar went across the links and could’ve reached the center of St. Andrews. Those townspeople who hadn’t made it to the match most likely knew what the cheer meant.

  Hugh was congratulated by Dunn, whom he beat by six strokes. He hesitated before walking across the green to shake his caddie’s hand, seemingly concerned on what might be said by James.

  And his concern was well founded. The McEwan lad standing next to me said in a loud voice to Hugh, "did ye know Mr. Dunn broke his spoon club against the hardness of the gutty at the seventh?" Then the lad turned to me and said, "write that in your paper, sir."

  I saw Willie Dunn’s grimace.

  Two men hoisted Hugh up on their shoulders to carry him to his shop. His caddie skipped blissfully along behind. The lads put Hugh down in front of his shop knowing he would join them later at the society’s club room to take a drink from the Claret Jug, a tradition whenever a golfer from St. Andrews prevailed over one from Musselburgh.

  I went with Hugh into his shop and to his desk. He took up a quill and inscribed his score of 78 below HUGH and the 26 pennyweight on the feathery. He placed the ball in a wooden box along with the record score card signed by the Secretary of the Society of St. Andrews Golfers. He slipped the cover into grooves on the box and slid it forward to closure.

  His caddie was standing by the desk watching him mark the feathery. James McEwan still had the wicker basket of clubs slung over his shoulder.

  Hugh withdrew the long-nosed driver Douglas McEwan made for him. With the same quill he wrote HUGH and 78 on the thorn wood head and handed it to James, saying, "Keep this club in the McEwan family, James, and don’t be using it to poke down rabbit holes when hunting with your ferret."

  It was the proper trophy to reward his caddie with on the record day I’d spent at St Andrews with Hugh McNair, a great champion.

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  2004

  It was eight o’clock on an all-blue-sky Sunday morning. Zachary Beckman and his son, Scott, were getting ready to leave their custom colonial style home for a morning of golf. Diane Beckman entered the large country kitchen wearing a white silk robe. She was a woman who defied any disheveled, first thing in the morning appearance. Each of her real silver blond hairs had been combed in place. Her attractive face with high cheekbones held a bronze tennis court tan. Dianne’s robe covered the hint of a well formed five-foot-nine inch body developed lithe and slender by spending most of her leisure time on that same court. Those features made her true age of thirty-eight seem years below that number. Her large blue eyes widened and then quickly narrowed to a squint before she spoke.

  "Golf again, Zachary?" She angrily confronted her husband. "We’re supposed to play a tennis match at ten with the Swansons. He’s a large developer," she said, her voice reaching a high pitch, "and I need him."

  "Sorry, Diane, but Scott has his heart set on golf with me today."

  Diane turned in a white silk flourish and stormed out of the kitchen. Zachary told Scott to wait in the car then followed Diane upstairs toward their bedroom. He opened the same door that was slammed shut a few minutes before, and entered the large master bedroom with a four post bed
and oriental rugs scattered in places to cover the polished oak flooring.

  "No excuses or apologies, Zack. It’s always golf, golf, golf. Damn golf. I hate it! And you spend all your spare time with Scott…none with me." Her voice was shrill, on the edge of a scream.

  Zachary Beckman was only an inch taller than his wife at five-ten. His hair was black with a slight sprinkle of gray flecks hinting of more to come after his age of thirty-five. His face was not a classic handsome one, but was made rugged good looking by a broken nose not set properly after a rugby match. His body was toned, not only by golf and tennis, but by daily work-outs. His steel gray eyes expressed a marine pilot’s intensity when he said, "there’s a good excuse this time, Diane."

  She looked at him through some tearing . "What might that be?"

  "I was going to wait and tell you tonight when we were at the restaurant. But here goes." Zack took a deep breath. "I’ve volunteered to go to Iraq and I wanted to play golf once more with Scott before I left."