An account of strange happenings on the golf links
By Jim Montpelier
Many examples of the occult appear in Golf Short Story fiction (GSSF). This example features two golfers, one the worst sort of product of the Scottish private school system, the other possessing some level of supernatural powers, or perhaps simply otherworldly mastery. You must be the judge…
Rufus Marchmont arrived early at Silverfield for his second-round high handicappers Spring knockout game, in preparation for hassling his opponent (who he knew only vaguely) before the match. He recollected his mother talking about their family’s connection with the Vichy-Klaxon’s (probably via a distant connection with the Earl of Marchmont) involving witchery in some form, a suggestion which he discarded as irrelevant and nonsensical at an early age. Her domineering accounts included her pride that her ancestors had been responsible for the ‘eradication’ of witchcraft in Scotland in the early 18th Century.
His opponent had requested a change of date to the 15th March, which didn’t really suit Rufus, but he grudgingly went along with it, assuring him that it was an inconvenience. His ‘training’ at Edinburgh’s upmarket sporty private school (Fermiston Academy) had taught him that making your opponent uncomfortable before and during sporting activity was perfectly fair, despite it amounting to severely unsportsmanlike behaviour. He heard a quiet voice say “Hello. Jules Vichy-Klaxon’s my name”. He apologised for his rushed arrival, muttering something about his lateness being due to arrangements for the upcoming Spiritualist convention in Edinburgh the following week, also mentioning his hero Arthur Conan Doyle. “Conan Doyle is almost certainly my second cousin twice removed, said Jules, hence some of my interest”. Rufus laughed under his breath at the complexity of his opponent’s name, and his strange interest in his genealogy, which he thought was a worthless pursuit. He enquired “You must have had problems with the Vichy-Klaxon moniker at School”; “You’re absolutely right said Jules – I couldn’t keep the senior girls away! It’s better however than my full name – Jules Aleister St-Styx Ignatius Vichy-Klaxon”, finishing with a giggle. Sorry also about the choice of date – the ‘Ides of March,’ said Jules. I wouldn’t usually ask anyone to commit to that date, so thanks for agreeing. Rufus, a considerable cultural Luddite failed to grasp the significance of the date.
“I’m not used to these club competitions”, ventured Jules. – “I do hope you can explain the format, and hopefully we can have a casual sort of game?” “Oh no”, said Rufus; “strict rules of golf at this club – I’m a bit of a stickler for that he said” (sensing his opponent’s somewhat weak manner). “What’s your handicap -mine’s 18- it’s just gone out from 14”. Rufus had been carefully recording a number of artificially high scores in preparation for a good run in the knockout competition. Some of his opponents had been surprised at his admissions – including incurring penalties by hitting the ball twice and replacing his marked ball in the wrong position on the green They suspected what he was up to, but didn’t care enough to bother about reporting him to the handicap committee. Jules confessed to a handicap of 13, to which Rufus responded “unlucky for some?”. “We’ll just play the 18 holes”, concluded Rufus, not allowing Jules the option of playing Silverfields extra holes, the five which made it the only twenty-three-hole layout in the world. “Fine by me”, said Jules; “I’ve got a meeting with my medium at teatime”. The two men set off for the first tee, Rufus with his smart power trolley and new clubs, while Jules carried an old canvas bag with a collection of mismatching but evidently quality clubs.
Jules opts to have a practice putt, using his 1930’s Lillywhite Frowd putter, at which Rufus scoffs, saying “you surely can’t use that old thing – you should try my Scotty Cameron – even the head cover costs over £100”. Jules apologized for his antique club, mentioning in passing however that Rufus was far from the first opponent who had jocularly insulted his prized ‘short stick’, and regretted it later “but I’m sure that won’t happen”. Jules shows Rufus his golf ball, identifying it as a Slazenger, with a number 666, written in purple. “That’s unusual” said Rufus, giggling quietly; “I didn’t think Slazengers were made any more – wasn’t that what Goldfinger was playing”? “Are you sure it isn’t a 1.62-inch model rather than the required 1.68-inch version these days – wasn’t that change around 1990”? Jules says casually “I don’t know where I got it – I’m sure purple is associated with death and mourning in Asia”.
Rufus mentioned the five shot difference in handicaps, which when multiplied by the required 90% still worked out at a rounded-up five – “bad luck old chap”. Rufus had noticed how busy Jules small bag was – “I do hope you only have fourteen clubs you know”. Rufus had a quick look, and while not being certain thought he saw a mixture of right-handed and left-handed clubs in the bag, but unfairly decided not to warn Jules, thinking that was his mistake, then also failed to notice that Jules was driving left-handed, even getting in his way on the tee.
The players set off up the first fairway, Rufus somewhat ahead due to his electric trolley, with Jules lingering apparently in a world of his own. Jules played first to the green, his ball glancing sideways at the last moment. “Isn’t that where the buried baby was found?”, said Rufus., hoping to unsettle his opponent “I heard it was really a dog”, said Jules humorously. “It was all to do with the burning of the witch legend, which was said to have happened in the early 18th Century”. Jules recovered well to leave his third shot only around thirty inches from the hole, which Rufus was very evidently not going to concede. Rufus then knocked his to around three feet, which Jules promptly conceded, then requiring to hole his short un-conceded putt. Rufus, smiling, looked away as he took his shot, which was just as well as the ball was clearly not going to make the hole, but magically changed direction and popped in.
The second hole followed much the same way as the first, with Rufus always being in the ascendancy, and once again having his three-footer conceded before Jules was successful with a little longer effort. Jules, being generally unaware of, and not caring about rules and etiquette, was unaware that the further away played first, and Rufus played on this.
At the next hole, Jules had a tricky downhill putt for his par, while Rufus waited for him to concede his two-footer in the usual way, which with his shot would have won the hole. Jules was successful, then Rufus, not having had a decent length of short put, failed and shot glances at Jules, seeming to blame him; Jules in the meantime had been relieving himself in the undergrowth behind the green, and emerged from the brambles and nettles seemingly undamaged, much to Rufus surprise, who thought he also had seen some poison ivy in there.
All square going down the fourth, with one of his five shots gone, Rufus was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable, having failed to rattle his opponent even with breaches of etiquette, and was wondering if Jules had someone else on his side. Jules kept bring the conversation back to the occult, while Rufus, never one for small talk, selected topics which he thought would unsettle his opponent.
At the seventh, Jules played a shot which ended up behind a tree, clearly with no feasible shot for a left-handed player due to there being no possible follow through. Rufus was already calculating the score with a win for him, when he saw Jules playing comfortably out – with a right-handed club! Stunned by his opponent’s success (and decent embarrassment), Rufus shanked his next shot into the bushes beside the green, and shaking in disbelief, made an illegal adjustment to his ball, improving the lie without saying anything. In doing so, he scratched his hand on some of the same poison ivy which had not affected his opponent, and emerged scratching furiously, cursing his bad luck. His opponent continued to be conciliatory, congratulating him when he managed to half the hole aided by another of his handicap strokes (only three remaining now).
At the eighth hole (lucky for the Chinese says Jules cheerily, they’re very superstitious). “All dumplings and seaweed if you ask me”, said Rufus grumpily. Rufus saw his wayward drive canon off the edge of the bunker for which it was destined, instead fortuitously finishing in the middle of the fairway. “Well done”, said Jules in a sporting manner. He was somewhat stymied by a large tree, but bravely took on the challenge, striking the tree, along with a subsequent three or more further trees, rather like a pinball machine, finishing close to where Rufus was. “Goodness gracious, said Rufus, how on earth were you so lucky?” “Perhaps”, said Jules, “because I sought aid from Chinese delusionists!
All square through nine holes, Rufus had implemented most of his ruses, but failed to upset his opponent in the least. He felt sure he would be able to catch him out somewhere, but had failed miserably thus far. He was also starting to wonder how he was going to explain to his few acquaintances in the club that he had succumbed to a player who not only cared little for the contest or his under-estimated handicap, but was known to play with an assortment of mismatched clubs and an artificially low handicap.
Rufus absentmindedly noticed Jules hovering around a tall yellow-flowered tree, which he later realised was the poisonous laburnum, where Jules tarried, and apparently pulled off a bunch of the pods -“not great for you “ said Rufus, not caring a jot.
“Oh they’re deadly aren’t they”? says Jules, taking little notice. Rufus thought he saw Jules chewing something a bit later. He also saw some foxgloves (a source of digitalis) which he mentioned to Jules, who quoted some Latin terms and advised that he liked to gather them to flavour his soup. About this time, Rufus became aware that Jules was casually knocking in putts from all distances, including two from the fringe, the ball sometimes changing pace and direction inexplicably; – “That was lucky”, complained Rufus. No, that’s just the putter fighting back against criticism!” – even inanimate objects have a sprit you know and the digitalis does help speed up the heart a bit!”
At one point, when Jules was on the other side of the fairway, Rufus could have sworn that he heard a giggle from behind (or even within?) a tree as he unsuccessfully tried to extricate himself from a position where he really should have accepted a penalty drop.
After a few more halved holes, the weather started to deteriorate, the temperature increasing, with distant thunder. The two contestants had just retreated into a wooden shelter, when thunder and lightning struck the far side of the fairway. Jules, seemingly requiring a further comfort break, popped out into the undergrowth, when a peal of thunder and almost simultaneous lightning struck nearby.
Rufus was just about to consult his rules of golf to check what should happen if your opponent dies on the course during a match, when Jules reappeared. “Goodness”, said Rufus. Did you see the lighting? I could smell burning in the air”. “Not at all,” said Jules. “I found it suddenly quite invigorating!”.
On the fifteenth, now with just one handicap shot in hand, Rufus announced haughtily (and privately in some desperation) that he was going to cut the corner of the dogleg, something which wasn’t possible a few years ago when a huge tree protected that route. Ignorant big-hitting golfers had discovered that option, and the club had considered creating an internal out of bounds, but sought the good nature and good sense of members advising that they should desist from that shot, as nearby properties were in danger of being struck. Rufus, realising he had to make a move while he still had a shot in hand, announced with great gusto his disregard of that recommendation (“rules are for fools”), and played a huge high shot across the gap in the dogleg. His ball inexplicably suddenly pinged loudly (and woodenly) off something (which appeared to be where the big tree had been) and ended up in thick rough. Jules recounted that the tree that used to stand in the way of Rufus’s shot was infamous in that someone sheltering under the tree was killed when it was struck by lightning and fell as a consequence many years previously. Jules found Rufus’s ball, suggesting he take a free drop to negate his unlucky outcome. Rufus, still grumping, took the offer, and eventually halved the fifteenth with the aid of his last handicap stroke, and a most unusual but casual three putt from Jules.
Three holes to go, his opponent still nonchalantly ambling along, disregarding or at least clearly unfazed by his opponents constant rude and unsporting behaviour, Rufus felt obliged to enquire of Jules, “Don’t you ever get flustered?” he said in exasperation? “Oh – sometimes “replied Jules, “but only when I think I’ve upset someone – but being uncompetitive, I’m not really bothered”. Rufus, in his befuddled state, simply couldn’t relate or equate the curious happenings, given the sense of his own importance. He watched in amazement as Jules, suddenly attacked by several hornets, pulled one of them off his arm as it was in the process of stinging him, and appeared completely unharmed in the process: “Shame that”, he said. “Poor beast, it seems to have died” Rufus was by now beside himself in confusion, but sadly, for his mental state, worse was to come at the denouement.
A narrow loss at the 16th followed by a lucky half at the 17th meant that Rufus, now one down, had to win the 18th just to stay in the competition. The half at the 17th was something of a triumph for Rufus, spoiled only by Jules account of the drowning pool, and the witch who they failed to drown despite several attempts. Jules hinted that the soggy patch at the back of the 16th green is said to be where the pool was situated, and local folklore used to describe the ghostly apparition which appeared in the area, apparently searching for Salvation…
Salvation was what Rufus now craved; and a more than decent drive at the 18th, aided by a miscue from Jules indicated a small window of hope. A fine shot to the green, applauded by his opponent, finished around three yards below the pin. Jules scrambled onto the green in three shots, around twenty feet from the pin with a couple of serious borrows en route. His par put finished four feet away, and once again unwittingly playing out of turn, casually holed the putt for a bogey, leaving Rufus with two shots to win the hole from less than ten feet, and send the players down the 19th fairway. Rufus carefully considered the shot, feeling that anything less than two and a half feet away would be conceded by his decent (but foolish) opponent. He struck it firmly, but it appeared to be caught by some sort of unexplained-friction, and barely made halfway to the hole, Rufus later swearing that he saw the ball develop sudden increasing backspin! Just over four feet to go to win the match, a distance which even Jules couldn’t be expected to concede. Rufus struck it firmly again, seemingly perfectly this time, the ball disappearing into the bottom of the hole – only to emerge, run round the rim a couple of times and disappear downwards again (each time Rufus reaching down to collect it triumphantly from the bottom of the cup), before inexplicably and finally popping out. “Oh, bad luck old chap”, said Jules – “but it doesn’t really matter, as I was going to be unable to play on in the next round anyway, so the match is yours. Congratulations – I do hope you enjoyed our casual game”. Rufus’s mouth hadn’t closed since the demonic failure of his final putt, and wandered off in a daze having failed to shake hands with his opponent.
After the game, his blood pressure having decreased slightly, Rufus went into the bar and asked a group of members about his opponent. Ah, they all said; Vichy-Klaxon, a rum sort of chap, into alchemy and all that sort of stuff, also a master mason, and wasn’t he one of they ‘Spiritualists’, somethin’ tae dae wi that Conan Doyle chap? Didn’t they say that his wife had died of some rare poison (eaten out her own hand mind you), and that he had ancestors who had been implicated in events including cannibalism and heretic-burning. It was only a story mind you.
Still suspicious of his opponent, he quietly checked with the Club Secretary. “Jules Vichy-Klaxon is from a long line of family members at the club, lives abroad and turns up just once or twice a year. You should be privileged,” said the Secretary; “I really hope you didn’t upset him, he’s quite a star, and a big benefactor of the club – he owns a series of oilfield franchises in the USA, and don’t be fooled by his apparently scruffy golfing equipment – all his clubs were previously owned by A-list film stars, and his old canvas bag previously belonged to Bobby Jones. He changed his official name recently you know; it used to be Jules Horne”.
Rufus Marchmont wasn’t seen in any further rounds of the competition, scratching immediately. The story of his curious loss got round the club, and his subsequent appearances were often met with mild ridicule.
Addendum
The last witch executed in Scotland was Janet Horne (executed by burning circa 1727), who came from Dornoch. The story goes that she and her daughter were sentenced to be burned, but the daughter escaped un-singed and made her way South, eventually to the Cramond area, where she resumed her witchcraft practices, allegedly on ground owned by the Ogilvie family to the East of their estates, probably in the The Bridge of Stanes area to the south east of Cramond House. (NLS maps from that era – 1817 Kirkwood) – i.e. not too far from BLGS and Silverfield. There is no reason to doubt that there are surviving descendants, and the spiritual nature of witchcraft may well endure in that environment.
@Alastair Allanach 2024
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