Bond walked through the shop and out to his car. The bowler-hatted man was polishing the metal work of the Rolls with a cloth. Bond felt rather than saw him stop and watch Bond take out his zip bag and go into the club house. The man had a square flat yellow face. One of the Koreans?
Bond paid his green-fee to Hampton, the steward, and went into the changing-room. It was just the same – the same tacky smell of old shoes and socks and last summer’s sweat. Why was it a tradition of the most famous golf clubs that their standard of hygiene should be that of a Victorian private school? Bond changed his socks and put on the battered old pair of nailed Saxones. He took off the coat of his yellowing black and white hound’s-tooth suit and pulled on a faded black wind-cheater. Cigarettes? Lighter? He was ready to go.
Bond walked slowly out, preparing his mind for the game. On purpose he had needled this man into a high, tough match so that Goldfinger’s respect for him should be increased and Goldfinger’s view of Bond – that he was the type of ruthless, hard adventurer who might be very useful to Goldfinger – would be confirmed. Bond had thought that perhaps a hundred-pound Nassau would be the form. But ten thousand dollars! There had probably never been such a high singles game in history – except in the finals of American Championships or in the big amateur Calcutta Sweeps where it was the backers rather than the players who had the money on. Goldfinger’s private accounting must have taken a nasty dent. He wouldn’t have liked that. He would be aching to get some of his money back. When Bond had talked about playing high, Goldfinger had seen his chance. So be it. But one thing was certain, for a hundred reasons Bond could not afford to lose.
He turned into the shop and picked up the balls and tees from Alfred Blacking.
‘Hawker’s got the clubs, sir.’
Bond strolled out across the five hundred yards of shaven seaside turf that led to the first tee. Goldfinger was practising on the putting green. His caddie stood near by, rolling balls to him. Goldfinger putted in the new fashion – between his legs with a mallet putter. Bond felt encouraged. He didn’t believe in the system. He knew it was no good practising himself. His old hickory Calamity Jane had its good days and its bad. There was nothing to do about it. He knew also that the St Marks practice green bore no resemblance, in speed or texture, to the greens on the course.
Bond caught up with the limping, insouciant figure of his caddie who was sauntering along chipping at an imaginary ball with Bond’s blaster. ‘Afternoon, Hawker.’
‘Afternoon, sir.’ Hawker handed Bond the blaster and threw down three used balls. His keen sardonic poacher’s face split in a wry grin of welcome. ‘How’ve you been keepin’, sir? Played any golf in the last twenty years? Can you still put them on the roof of the starter’s hut?’ This referred to the day when Bond, trying to do just that before a match, had put two balls through the starter’s window.
‘Let’s see.’ Bond took the blaster and hefted it in his hand, gauging the distance. The tap of the balls on the practice green had ceased. Bond addressed the ball, swung quickly, lifted his head and shanked the ball almost at right angles. He tried again. This time it was a dunch. A foot of turf flew up. The ball went ten yards. Bond turned to Hawker, who was looking his most sardonic. ‘It’s all right, Hawker. Those were for show. Now then, one for you.’ He stepped up to the third ball, took his club back slowly and whipped the club head through. The ball soared a hundred feet, paused elegantly, dropped eighty feet on to the thatched roof of the starter’s hut and bounced down.
Bond handed back the club. Hawker’s eyes were thoughtful, amused. He said nothing. He pulled out the driver and handed it to Bond. They walked together to the first tee, talking about Hawker’s family.
Goldfinger joined them, relaxed, impassive. Bond greeted Goldfinger’s caddie, an obsequious, talkative man called Foulks whom Bond had never liked. Bond glanced at Goldfinger’s clubs. They were a brand new set of American Ben Hogans with smart St Marks leather covers for the woods. The bag was one of the stitched black leather holdalls favoured by American pros. The clubs were in individual cardboard tubes for easy extraction. It was a pretentious outfit, but the best.
‘Toss for honour?’ Goldfinger flicked a coin.
‘Tails.’
It was heads. Goldfinger took out his driver and unpeeled a new ball. He said, ‘Dunlop 65. Number One. Always use the same ball. What’s yours?’
‘Penfold. Hearts.’
Goldfinger looked keenly at Bond. ‘Strict Rules of Golf?’
‘Naturally.’
